


Like Stone

by writingishard (camisadomg)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: AU: prostitute, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Blood, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, On the Run, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-01 03:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12696612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camisadomg/pseuds/writingishard
Summary: Billy Hargrove didn't expect much from life.Steve Harrington knew there was more.The two shouldn't mix, but Steve is too kind to let drunk people drive. The two polarize, the two balance out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AKA I posted something like "I need my classic prostitute billy au and steve loving him fic" and not fifteen minutes later I decided to write it myself

The country road was dark, and Billy was low on gas. He didn't know what to do, and for a while the idea of approaching dirty old men for cash had crossed his mind. He just needed to keep driving, but he couldn't if he had no money. Frustrated, he pulled into the illuminated parking lot of a bar, where his last five bucks could be blown on the cheapest alcohol around and he could maybe win a few bets or games of pool. The bar was nameless; at least, the sign wasn't lit and Billy couldn't make out the letters in the dark. He had recently crossed the state line of Maryland and hadn't found the right place to stop yet.

A few men and women littered the room. It wasn't yet too late in the night to start hooking up and heading home, and Billy was glad to see that there were ample opportunities to make some quick cash. He won every round of pool he was challenged to and even got in on some card action. By the time the bar started to clear out, he was fifty dollars richer.

He sat on a stool and sipped beer from a tall glass that was probably dirty, but he didn't care. He had recently left home just two weeks ago, and felt proud of himself for how far he had gone in such a short amount of time. Though nothing would ever feel far enough, he was sure of it. A heavyset man slid down onto the vacant stool next to Billy. "You looking to make some cash?" He asked, voice low but confident.

Billy eyed him. His low growl was usually enough to intimidate everyone else, but the guy seemed firm in his standing. "You've got the wrong kind of guy."

"Really? What kind of guy do you think I'm looking for?" The man chuckled.

"Some faggot to suck your dick," Billy took a sip of his drink, all casual. "I'm not that guy."

The stranger laughed low in his chest. "Aren't you a wise-guy."

Billy clenched his jaw, kept his eyes forward.

"We'll see how high and mighty you are when you don't have any gas." The man whispered in Billy's ear before leaving.

Three days later, Billy was out of gas, somewhere in Pennsylvania, the biggest fucking state he had ever tried driving through (California had been known terf, but PA was just a never-ending stretch of grass and gas stations that looked haunted.) He used his winnings to spur himself on for a little bit, but he knew that he couldn't survive on gambling alone. The last thing he ever wanted to do was go home.

It was more convenient, anyway. And it didn't make him gay, it was just a fast way to get some cash. So Billy blew guys for money, so what? So what if he charged extra to let them fuck him? It kept his car going. And going he went, still unsure if there would ever be a final destination. Sometimes he could afford a retreat into a hotel, a cheap, dirty place that at least let him scrub the grease from his limp hair and wash every inch of skin that had been violated.

One of those nights, a night with a hotel and hot water, Billy decided to treat himself a little bit. He was one beer into what would be dozens, and he fluffed up his hair as best he could without his beloved hairspray. Hitting the town of whatever city he had landed in, he found that he was severely under-dressed for the encroaching winter. His breath came out in puffs of white air that reminded him of cigarettes that he hadn't gotten to smoke regularly in weeks. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked on, finding a bar that let him loosen himself a little bit.

Around the time his vision began to blur, Billy tried to remind himself that his current earnings had cost three hand-jobs, two blowjobs and a fuck, but he kept whipping out the cash like he had a regular life he was avoiding. When he was down to his last three dollars and seventy-four cents, he stopped. "Shit," He grumbled, stuffing the crumpled bills in his pocket. The change clattered somewhere onto the floor, but he couldn't see because suddenly bare legs were in front of his face, highlighted by impossibly short shorts and an exposed midriff. "Hey, stranger." A confident woman smiled and Billy could only appreciate her wild femininity.

He was too drunk.

To the girl's credit, she tried. What she didn't know was that Billy had become so desensitized that almost nothing could get it up. It didn't help that he had been out of practice with those parts, or, honestly, he hadn't cared enough to keep in practice. Stumbling away from the girl, Billy went to find someplace to vomit in peace, alcohol burning his throat on the way up just as it had down. When he made his way, crashing, out of the bathroom and back to the bar where his car keys miraculously laid not stolen, a hand whisked them away before Billy could go. "Listen, lady--"

But it wasn't the woman who had been trying to fuck him. It was a younger boy, probably no older than Billy himself, and he was frowning. "Sorry, man."

"What the fuck?" Billy slurred.

"I can't let you drive, you're wasted." The boy said, calmly pocketing the keys.

"Fuck you, asshole," Billy spit. His blood pounded in his ears, and he was ready to fight. In high school, he had been quite the fighter. He never lost. But then, the world was fuzzy around the edges and the boy's voice seemed miles away when he said, "Just sleep it off here."

Billy was unconscious before his hand could even turn into a fist.

_Then, Billy was dancing. Not in a ravenous, uncontrolled way that just made him sweat, but he stepped to a slower tune that kept him spinning for hours, never getting dizzy. He hummed along with it, though he felt like he had never heard the song before. There was no partner dancing with him._

_On what was probably the millionth turn, he tripped. He fell for a long time, the ground having disappeared below him. "Wake up, shithead." The screaming visage of his father hissed._

_"Run," His younger step-sister cried._

_"Wake up!" His father repeated._

Billy startled awake.

He was laying on the floor of... somewhere. His head was pounding and his stomach felt like it was full of oil. Someone was knocking on the door across from him. "Wake up," An unfamiliar voice called. Not his father.

Billy groaned and pulled himself to his feet, though his head spun circles at the act. He yanked open the door, and came face-to-face with a stranger. An old man, bald with thick glasses hanging off of his nose. Billy's stomach sunk with the thought that he had let the man fuck him, but the man instead said, "You have to leave now, go home. My son always feels bad for the traveling drunks, but I'm not a wayward home. Got it?"

Dumbly, Billy nodded. He pushed knotted hair out of his face and tried to wipe dried droll off of the corner of his mouth. "Mind if I use your bathroom before I go?"  
The man pursed his lips but let Billy go.

The bathroom was two-stalled, but with only one sink. Billy stood before it, letting the water run. He had scrubbed his face so hard his cheeks and forehead had turned pink in color. That was normal, Billy always scrubbed as hard as he could.

By the time he was done washing up, the bar seemed vacant. It was barely light outside, and Billy half wondered if he hallucinated the encounter. As he checked the tables for loose change, he saw a crisp five-dollar bill on the bar with a note on a napkin that read, _try to get something hot to eat._ Billy pocketed the money and left without looking back, eager to get his last few hours of sleep in a real bed, even if there was a slight possibility that the bed in question had a few bedbugs.

As he drove, he took note of the signs. He was in a big city, well, just on the outskirts. He remembered the name of the hotel he had booked a room at and followed directions as best as he could back. In his head, he calculated. He knew that feasibly, he couldn't live in his car his whole life, but there weren't many options for a young guy with a high school diploma that sucked dick for a living, and he knew that. Even though the reality stung.

 _Room for Rent, Apartment for Sale,_ all of the advertisements taunted him with a life he could never have.

He slept until the manager pounded down the door and kicked him out of the room. Then he got to work.

Billy was smart, despite the circumstances. He knew how the outskirts of big cities worked; poor husbands, closeted and afraid, willing to pay anything for sex that felt good for once. And Billy was good at what he offered. He could fake it like a pro, and knew that got him better pay. The first time a guy had fucked him, Billy nearly blacked out from the pain and then proceeded to lay motionless while the guy pounded into him, ripping his body in half as he went. The man had wrapped a hand around Billy's throat and said, "You ain't gonna enjoy it, _slut?"_

Billy became good at faking it.

In that city, he found a man within fifteen minutes of looking. The man was older, as they most commonly were, and he reeked of cigarettes. "How much?" The man had asked, not wasting any time with formalities.

"Depends on what you're asking for." Billy shrugged, trying to appear casual and in-control.

The man seemed surprised by this. "What're you offering?"

Billy laid it out for him: blowjob, twenty bucks. Sex, fifty. Anything else would be extra. The man took out two fifties and in his hurry he didn't bother to demand change, which Billy wouldn't have had anyway. 

As usual, the guy didn't bother being careful. He hurried into a rent-by-the-hour motel room where a woman at the counter didn't even look up as he handed her cash for two hours with shaking hands. He must have been a regular. Billy felt like he was being sliced apart, but he moaned into the pillow he was gripping to keep the man excited. The guy actually lasted longer than Billy would have ever guessed. When it was over, the man pressed hot kisses onto Billy's back, which made him want to vomit more than any dick in his ass would ever do. The stranger's lips felt slimy, impersonal, invading.

Billy stood, ignored the sting in his backside, collected his money, and made his way to the door. The old man was still catching his breath by the time Billy was already working on another man.

That was how it went for Billy. Sometimes, he'd get angrier guys that hit him, or at least tried to. Billy wasn't a pussy. He didn't let anyone smack him around if they weren't paying for it. And then, sometimes, he did get people who paid extra to hit him while they fucked him and Billy could only sit and take it and wonder when the value of his life had reached fifteen dollars bonus on a twenty dollar blowjob.

Surprisingly, the town was offering him good business. He hated staying anywhere for longer than a few days, but the hotel was cheap and the men were returning for more, and Billy wanted just a little break from the driving. He hadn't gone out and drank like he did his first night in town, he was too busy looking for work and places he could potentially rent that didn't cost forty of his hundred dollars a night. "Not permanent," He reminded himself as he came home from the streets early one morning. The room, though, was littered with evidence to the contrary. Billy seemed comfortable in the town, even though he still wasn't one-hundred percent sure of what state he was in. There was something to be said for impatient landlords that didn't ask questions, and Billy happily parked his car and turned off the engine out front of a rusty looking apartment complex with rusty looking people worn down from life. He would fit right in, he knew it.    


	2. Chapter 2

"No, Steve, this sentence is fractured, that's why your professor keeps taking points off of your essays." 

"This doesn't make any goddamn sense."

"Look, you have to end the sentence properly. Just leaving it in the air like that is wrong."

Steve Harrington was in his second year of college, and things were only going as good as the last. In front of him on the library table were plenty of papers that he had spent countless all-nighters perfecting, and they were all scribbled over with a professor's red ink and quite a few coffee stains. His girlfriend Nancy sat next to him, paging through his rejected essays, eyebrows a furrow of confusion. He hated writing, had never been good at it, but needed to do it to graduate. "I don't get why they can't just let me in the lab and leave me alone."

Nancy chuckled. "This is the nineties, Steve, everyone wants well-rounded students. You have to be good at it all."

"Like you're an expert in physics," Steve muttered, chewing absently on the eraser of a pencil. Nancy snatched it from his mouth with a smirk. 

"How about a break?" She suggested, raising her arms over her head and stretching out her back. "You've been at this for hours."

_"You've_ been at this for hours," Steve corrected her. "I've accepted the fact that I will never write good essays."

Nancy rolled her eyes and planted a kiss on Steve's cheek. "When do you have to be in to work?"

Steve checked his watch. "Shit," He gasped. "Shit, shit, shit." He hurried to scramble together his supplies and stuff it all into his worn, torn book bag. "Ten minutes."

"You're going to be late," Nancy told him, smiling at his flustered appearance. His hair spiked impossibly tall from all of the times he had run his hands through it in the past two hours, and his cheeks were red with nerves. Before he dashed away, he kissed Nancy hard and panted an I love you onto her cheek before tearing out of the library comically. Nancy held in her laughter as best as she could as she got up to use the bathroom, intent on staying a little longer to study her own work. 

If there was one thing Steve was good at, it was loving his girlfriend. Sure, sometimes he said the wrong thing or he didn't notice all of the little changes, like that time she had gotten her hair trimmed and totally deflated when Steve didn't pick up on the lost inch of hair, but he loved her more than he had loved anyone in his life, and Nancy knew that. They were both twenty, young, and excited for the future. They had been together for three years and knew each other inside and out. 

As Nancy stayed to read her notes on early child development, Steve sped down the back roads to get to his father's bar. He had owned the place for all of Steve's life, and when the time came for Steve to get a job it was the first place he went to. Outside of custodial staff, his father ran the business pretty much on his own and was fine with hiring his son as an employee, and had no trouble treating him as such.

"You're late." He said as the door bell jingled and Steve flew in. Actually, he had managed to make it exactly two minutes before his shift technically started, but his father didn't count two minutes as early. 

"Sorry, I was studying and--"

His father raised a hand. "It's fine, Steve. Just get behind here, the crowd'll be rolling in soon."

Just like clockwork, the first few stragglers of the night began filing in, ordering simple drinks with simple names and simple tastes. As the night progressed, many people left, some tried to sneak into the bathrooms together, and others stayed until a friend had to pry them away from the bar, beer staining the fronts of their shirts and eyes only half-open. This was an average night for Steve, and as he worked he was able to think about his writing and what Nancy had been telling him about grammar and style.

Around midnight, the door banged open and in stepped a boy about Steve's own age. Young people came to the bar all the time, but they were usually in groups or at least with a significant other. This boy, however, was alone, and Steve's eye caught on the split lip and slight limp to his step. As the night progressed he watched the boy win bets and by round after round of alcohol, until Steve was tempted to use his power to cut the boy off, something he had never had to do in the past. But the boy seemed to have no limits.  
Steve watched, slightly amused as a woman tried to hit on him until he ran away, no doubt to throw up all of the poison that was shocking his system. Steve was only surprised that it hadn't happened sooner. The woman looked affronted, and huffed out of the bar area without so much as a glance backward, moving on to the next decent-looking guy in the place. That was the problem, thought Steve. The best looking guy in the place was blackout drunk in the bathroom heaving up his soul. 

Then, he stumbled out from the direction of the bathrooms and made a grab for the keys he had discarded next to his glass of beer. "Hey," Steve called, but when the guy didn't respond, he snatched the keys away. The guy blinked, dazed. He started in on Steve, annoyed, thinking it was the lady from a few minutes ago, but then halted when Steve told him to sleep it off. He grumbled out a fuck you as Steve led him to the back room, where a door could at least provide some peace for the weary traveler. 

The guy passed out within seconds of Steve dropping him to the floor, and he set to work looking through his wallet to find out any information, to see if there was anyone he could call. There was no address book, no information card, nothing besides forty-seven bucks and a driver's license that said he was from Indiana and was twenty-two years old. Steve tossed the wallet back down to the lump of the guy and went back out to the front to make sure nobody robbed the place of its beer while he was gone.

By the time the night was out and it came time to close up, Steve had almost left the stranger in the closet for his dad to find. His dad had come in around four in the morning to let Steve go to bed, and as he walked to the back room for cleaning supplies, Steve managed to explain himself slightly. "I couldn't let him drive, dad." Steve shrugged. His father sighed. 

"Okay, good man." He patted Steve on the shoulder and gave him a smile. His father could be hard, and absent, but he had raised Steve right. "Go home now."

Home was really the college campus, but some nights it was easier for Steve to just drive back to his childhood home and crash on the sofa until the alarm on his watch brought him back to consciousness and he had to drive back to school. As he drove, he thought. He did a lot of that in his car. 

It was normal for men and women to come in alone sometimes, but they usually left after only a few drinks, and typically with someone else. The guy that had come in the previous night and, not only downed more alcohol than Steve could keep track of, but he had seemed determined to leave alone as well. 

Steve thought about him the next day in class while his professor went on about syntax, and thought about him while he and Nancy hung out in his dorm that night.

"Hello, Earth to Steve?" Nancy called, waving a hand in front of Steve's face.

"Hm?"

Nancy chuckled and climbed on top of him. He was laying back on his bed, and she made her way up to his face to gently kiss him and move her hands along his body. "I was just talking about nothing," She hummed, pulling back and admiring the way Steve's lips chased after hers, how they never seemed to get enough. 

"Everything you say is important," Steve told her, pushing up to capture her lips again. They kissed for awhile, Steve's shirt falling away at some point and Nancy working up to stripping down as well. Nancy's hand brushed his lower stomach and he thought suddenly about the sick look on the boy's face when the woman had tried to touch him.

"What's wrong?" Nancy asked, bringing her hand back up to his cheek.

Steve shook his head. "Nothing. Long night at work." 

"I bet," Nancy said. "You must see a lot of crazy." 

She went to kiss him, and Steve could only hum in response. As things turned more heated, Steve finally forgot about the stranger in the bar. Nancy was pliant, excited, wet beneath him and for the next half-hour it was only them in his room where technically the rules said that boys and girls couldn't be in the same dorms after eleven. 

Once Nancy left, taking the sweet smell of perfume with her, Steve laid awake, wondering why the stranger had caught his attention so much.

He didn't see the stranger again, not for weeks, not at the bar. Steve had decided that the guy was just traveling, passing through and stopping for a little reprieve. He wasn't someone Steve ever saw on campus, which led him to believe that he was from some other college, and that their paths would never cross again. 

The time between that first encounter and the next brought with it three essays that became only marginally better with each attempt, plenty of late nights with Nancy, and more than a few opportunities to get high and forget about the pressing matters of finals. This in-between time pushed the stranger to the back of Steve's mind, and when he saw the boy again he was not only surprised, but a little shocked.

He was bleeding from a cut on his head, and there were dark marks around his neck that looked less like love marks and more like someone had tried to choke him. "Are you okay?" Steve asked. It was a little after one in the morning, and the bar wasn't as busy as it had been when the boy had first appeared. The cold usually brought more people in, Steve just had to give it time.

The boy ignored his question and instead demanded for the cheapest beer, absently throwing in a 'please' before staring into the distance while he waited. "I think you should get that looked at," Steve said as he slid the tall glass toward the boy.

"S'fine," He shrugged, taking a long gulp of the alcohol. The glass was nearly empty when he put it down for the first time.

When Steve's dad began letting him work as an employee, he told him three rules for interacting with the customers at the bar, to be followed especially on slow nights when he was working alone. The first: Never Get Personal. Steve's father advised him to stay away from sob stories, because they were often fake and only lead to cons. The second: Never Turn Your Back. That one was easy, because there wasn't anything interesting enough to distract Steve from behind. The final rule was: Don't Drink With the Patrons. Sometimes on busy nights, Steve would steal a shot or two in between cleaning tables and pouring drinks, only to keep himself going in the early stretches of the morning, but he had never touched the drinks when it was slow, not unless there wasn't a single customer in sight. 

Steve asked, "What happened?" And broke rule one. The boy shrugged and said something about a fight, and Steve broke rule two by going to the back room to look for something that could be used to clean a wound. Finally, once it was all said and done, Steve mixed a drink for himself with some of his father's favorite whiskey that wouldn't be blamed on him, because when his father got to drinking it, he never kept track of how much went down. 

The boy took the offered rag and peroxide and went to the bathroom, and the only other person in the bar was an older woman who came mostly just to see Steve's father when he came in at closing. She never bothered Steve, so he didn't keep a close eye on her.

When the boy was done in the bathroom, his face was clean and Steve could see it properly. The stranger's hair was matted back into a mullet, and a thin earring dangled from one ear. Underneath his sunken eyes were dark blue circles, not from fists but from lack of sleep, the same kind that graffiti Nancy's eyes during finals. Not able to fight his curiosity Steve ends up asking, "What's your name?"

The boy finished his drink. "Doesn't matter."

Steve smiled. "Everyone's name matters."

The stranger had a dangerous glint in his eye that made Steve's throat run dry, and he snapped, "That's fucking bullshit. You sound like a faggot." Then he pushed away from the bar and stormed out of the place, beer unpaid for and Steve more shocked than he had been when he had first seen the boy. He watched the other boy stand outside of the window, lighting up a cigarette and blowing smoke into the sky. Braving himself, Steve downed the last bit of his drink and headed toward the door. "Watch the place for me, Miss." And he left his father's bar in the hands of a grandmother with an infatuation on the owner.

"No need to be angry," Steve said when he walked outside.

The boy took a drag, offered the cigarette to Steve. "Long night," He said as he watched Steve inhale, lips puckered around the cigarette and cheeks hollowed. He closed his eyes to stop the swaying in his mind. "Shouldn't you be in there?" He asked after getting the cigarette back and having something to do with his hands.

Steve shrugged. "She never drinks. It's fine."

The boy nodded, kicked the dirt around. "Billy," He said after a stretch of silence. "That's my name."

"I'm Steve."

"Okay."

The two stood under the half-illuminated sign of the bar (his father was looking for someone to fix it, he just never got around to it) and smoked two cigarettes. There was no conversation, and Steve felt twitchy. "So, what school do you go to?"

Billy frowned. "Excuse me?"

"It's just, I never see you on campus, and it's not exactly a big one. What school are you from?" Steve clarified. He shivered, remembering his coat hanging on the hook just on the other side of the door. 

Billy seemed fine in the cold, in just a long white shirt and plain jeans. The shirt was torn slightly down the middle, exposing Billy's chest when the wind picked up. "M'not in school," Billy mumbled, flicking his cigarette away. Without saying goodbye, he headed toward his car. Steve wanted to stop him, use his drinking as an excuse, but he had only had one glass of beer and he didn't even seem fazed. Steve knew he was college-aged, though, and the answer only piqued his interest more. 

"Will I see you around?" He called out into the night.

A car door clicked open.

"You sound like a faggot." 

The car door slammed shut, and an engine roared to life. Behind the glass, Steve saw the outline of Billy's body, shadowed by his headlights.There was a faint smile breaking the solid figure.

Steve swallowed his pride, and went back into the bar. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning this chapter is ..... graphic

November crawled its way into December, and the first snow began to fall in the sky. Billy didn't plan on working that day, but he did go out to let the snowflakes fall on his face and lay there. He didn't have a winter coat, so he dressed in layers, bulking up as best he could. He stood for an hour, not moving, snow piling around his feet and soaking his clean socks that he had recently bought, but he didn't mind. The socks would dry. The momentary peace was worth the soggy feet. There had never been snow in California, and he never got to enjoy the snow in Indiana either because of his father, so that moment in the middle of god-knows-where, he just stood, and let the snow begin to bury him.

Maybe he would freeze, then thaw out in spring when the skys were clear and it was warm enough to stand around alleys all day waiting for the next man to come along. 

In the two months since he had settled into his new home, Billy had gained quite a few regulars. There was an older man who always gave Billy an extra thirty dollars, but never asked that Billy did anything more for it. Billy hypothesized that the old man was trying to pay his way out of Hell, but letting a twenty-two year old man suck your dick while your wife sat alone at home knitting probably didn't look too good in the eyes of Jesus. Billy kept those thoughts to himself and pocketed the money, even putting a good chunk away in a small savings box. 

He went to the bar often, but didn't talk too much with Steve. Really, Billy didn't have much of a chance to. The cold weather brought groups of people into the place for spirits that burned their throats and warmed their blood, as well as a place to keep warm and occupied. Most nights when Billy visited the bar, he'd order a beer or two and watch as people went about their lives. A few times, he saw men that had paid to stick their dick up his ass, but if they recognized Billy they didn't show it. Billy doubted they even remembered the fake name he had given them.

He found himself thinking about the bar while standing under that cold snow, and wondered just how early it opened. Billy didn't have a phone in his home to call and ask, and he wasn't going to drive all the way to the place just to see, potentially wasting gas. He walked through the dust of snow to the closest phone booth before remembering that he didn't know the bar's number, and when he began to look it up in the book he remembered he never bothered to make out the letters of the broken sign and see what the place was called. Feeling defeated, he rested his head against the glass of the phone booth's window before going back out into the snow, which had progressed at that point from a slight dusting to a flurry.

As he began to walk back to his ratty apartment, a low voice called out to him. Through the haze of the snow, Steve couldn't see the figure clearly. It approached, and Billy squared his shoulders, planted his feet. "Yeah?" He called.

The figure finally got close enough to distinguish from the snow, and it was one of the younger, but still older, men that paid him. "What are you doing out here?" He asked Billy, eyes taking in how exposed he was. Before Billy could answer, the man said, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I don't do dates," Billy grunted, voice slipping away with the wind.

"No, I didn't think so," The man said with a low, menacing chuckle. "But I have five-hundred dollars with your name on it, if you behave today."

Billy's throat ran dry. Five-hundred was a big number for someone that had been living off of twenties and discarded ones. Only a true asshole could indulge in blowing that much money on a fucking whore, but Billy wasn't about to argue with the man about his financial decisions. Instead, he tilted his chin up slightly, poked out his tongue, smirked.

"What do you want me to do?"

An evil smile spread on the man's face, and Billy had to fight the vomit rising in his throat. "That's more like it," The man chuckled. "Let's get some drinks."

The man drove like an asshole over the icy roads, which was saying a lot because there was really no telling when the last time Billy obeyed a traffic law was. He was probably in his late thirties, the youngest customer Billy had, and a regular at that. It had gotten to the point where Billy could expect that every Thursday night, like clockwork, the man would come sneaking out of the shadows for his cheap fuck. It had always been the little things; the twenty-dollar blowjob that didn't do much to dent Billy's bills. But five hundred dollars. Just thinking about the number sent a chill up Billy's spine. 

The drive was over in an instant seeing as there was no one else foolish enough to brave the roads. The man had taken Billy to Steve's bar, just his luck. The car was off for no less than ten seconds before he was bolting out and walking to the door, not even looking back to see if Billy was following. The smug bastard knew the other boy wouldn't dare chicken out. 

There was something intimidating about going to Steve's bar with a man that was prepared to pay Billy a pile of money just for sex, but Billy swallowed the bile that seemed to be continuously rising in his throat with the hope that Steve wouldn't be in.

The bar was busy enough to disappear into, but not busy enough to disguise Steve's wild head of hair that bounced cartoonishly as he scurried around delivering drinks and questionable food. Billy followed the man right up to the bar, sat next to him on a vacant stool, wiped all emotions from his face as Steve turned to face them. His eyes went between the two and back again, examining. "Hey, Billy," Steve smiled. Billy nodded. Steve looked at the other man, a question in his eyes and tongue poking out dangerously to ask it. 

The man-- who after all this time, Billy couldn't think of his name-- ordered one of the most expensive bourbons on the shelf, and Steve hesitated for a moment before actually getting it. The man flashed his bills in Steve's direction to get him going, only barely keeping it all out of Billy's sight. Steve poured the alcohol slowly, carefully, not wasting a single expensive drop, drops that could potentially cost more than Billy's rent. 

"How have you been, Billy?" Steve asked, ignoring a calling customer to stand between the two other men, curiosity strangling everyone in reach.

"I've been fine," Billy shrugged, sipping at his drink. The flavor hit him in full and he had to close his eyes for a moment to savor it. It would be a long time before he ever got a taste like that again.

Steve hummed. 

The man cleared his throat.

"Right," Billy kicked into gear, turning just seductive enough for the man paying, while keeping a disguise up for Steve. "This is an old family friend," he lied easily, nodding to the man. "And that's Steve, a newer friend."

Billy didn't miss the way the man's eyes shone dangerously. "Friend?" He parroted. "Well, nice to meet you, Steve. Name's Tim."

Steve didn't make a warm welcome, instead excused himself to go tend to some other customers. After he left, the man-- Tim-- turned to Billy. "I don't like the look in his eyes." He glanced down at his glass, untouched. "'M goin' to the bathroom. When I get back, I expect this alcohol to be gone." The man slid off of his stool, and Billy took the moment of solitude to let his stomach churn sickly. He could tell that Tim, if that was even his real fucking name, was getting off on the idea of completely controlling Billy, and Billy didn't like being out of control. With every passing second, he grew more afraid. 

"Is that really a family friend?" Steve asked once the man had gotten far enough away, cutting into Billy's worry.

Billy shuddered. "No, it's some guy that owes me money, and he didn't want to 'fess up to it. You know how people are," He shrugged, staring down at the glasses on the bar. He didn't like to drink on the job, never had much of a chance to, but the man's venomous voice rang in his ears and he downed both like shots. "Just go with it." He told Steve, putting on his pretty face as the man came back to the bar.

Immediately, Steve turned away. "What, do I smell bad?" The man joked.

Billy wanted to tell the man that he smelled like a dick-loving piece of garbage, but he bit his tongue and said, "No, you smell amazing." Then, to add more leverage he lowered his voice and whispered, "I can't wait to get a taste."

The man had goosebumps, Billy could see, but he didn't say anything back. Quickly, his eyes darted to where the glasses laid empty, then smiled in a way that seemed more like a snarl, teeth barred and threatening. "Great," he chuckled. "Ready to go?"

Billy was surprised that everything was going so fast, that so quickly he was earning the money. He wouldn't have to work for the next two days, not with the pay the man was promising. As they left, Billy caught Steve's eye one last time, and almost couldn't look away.

They got to a hotel tucked into the back roads somewhere, the man asking for a double to keep suspicions low. Billy thought that if the man could blow so much money on one night he could have at least picked a hotel that didn't have stains on the ceilings and broken light bulbs littering the hallways. Once out of sight from the bellhop, the man pushed Billy forward, making him stumble. "Hey," Billy hissed darkly, rounding on Tim.

With his devil's smile, Tim handed over the cash to Billy. "Proof." He whispered. "Now go into this room, take off your clothes, and lay face down on the bed."

Billy swallowed, wanting to run. He let the man unlock the door and did as he had been instructed, listening to the man shuffle around behind him. It was a shame, because a lot of the men that came to him seemed respectable enough. A few, like Tim, were even a little attractive. Not Billy's first pick, but not as disgusting as it got in his particular line of work. It wasn't like Billy looked at any of the men like that, anyway. He wasn't really gay.

All of his clients knew that Billy could hold his own, that he wouldn't take a beating for free. Billy knew this himself, relied on the fact that his strength could out power any deranged fucker that tried to harm him outside of the established boundaries that came with prostitution. But even so, as the man paced, Billy grew scared. 

Then, without warning, the man climbed on top of Billy and started pressing into him, ripping him open and ignoring his screams of pain. No amount of money could prepare Billy for the always-present destruction he felt from a man that didn't know what he was doing. Admittedly, Billy didn't know much about it either, but there had been a few men that were careful enough to stretch Billy first, at least a little. 

Tim pushed and pushed until Billy's vocal chords gave out from the shock, head spinning with pain. He could've sworn he felt blood already, but that didn't stop the man. Every scream that was ripped from Billy's throat seemed to elicit more of a thrill from the older man, and Billy eventually fell into a quiet numbness of whimpers and gasps.   
When it was over, the man grabbed Billy by the hair, pulling his head back and twisting his face back. "Does five-hundred dollars get me a kiss?" He asked, sweat beading his forehead.

"Fuck you," Billy spit. "Your time's up. Go." Normally, talking to anyone like that would lose his business, but Billy didn't particularly care just then. Besides, the man seemed to enjoy hearing the hate in Billy's voice.

Time laughed, a sound that came from deep in his chest and made Billy's back buzz. He was all smiles and laughs, all night, Billy realized. Before he left the room he taunted, "You should shower, you fucking slut. You look like death."

The clean up was always terrible. Billy laid on the bed as his senses slowly came back to him. His back was tingling, his ass was burning, and he felt like he was going to die at any moment, heart racing and limbs shaking. He forced himself to his hands and knees, seeing the red on the cream-colored sheets. The sight gave him pause but he kept on moving, determined to get to the bathroom. When he finally got to his feet, thighs on fire and body aching, the sight of the bed made him want nothing more than the death he thought had been coming. There was the blood, and quite a lot, more than he was used to. The man's semen dried crudely on the spread, dirtying the whole thing further. 

Before he could collapse, Billy walked stiffly to the bathroom, where he scrubbed with the hotel's bar of soap until it was nothing more than a sliver. No matter what he did, how much he cleaned, the water never seemed to run clear. 

Billy was officially blacklisting that man. He wouldn't sleep with him for all the money in the world. 

He got dressed, counted his money, and went back out into the cold. 

During this time, Steve had taken a while to shake the feeling that Billy was in trouble. From the moment he had met the boy, he had gotten the sense that he was poking around in things that weren't exactly kosher, and it wasn't until three in the morning when he was finally allowed to go home that he could forget about Billy due to a lack of sleep. 

Sure, they hadn't shared many conversations, but they both felt a pull toward each other, comfort in the quietest of rooms and busiest of bars. Steve chalked it up to his lack of social life. Billy just thought it was nice to have someone interested in him that wasn't paying money to get his dick sucked. 

Steve's reprieve from his thoughts of Billy didn't last long; with each passing day, he grew more worried. It had been four days since Billy had come in with that strange man and Steve hadn't seen either since. It wasn't like Steve spent every waking moment thinking about the other boy, it was simply that the worry was always there in the back of his mind, an unconscious rope chaining him to Billy. Nancy easily picked up on her boyfriend's mood, but whenever she tried to get Steve to stay silent, he would find a way to change the subject, most often through sex.

That was the other thing. Ever since Billy showed up, Steve had been having a mild crisis. It had only happened once, but it haunted Steve every time he went to unhook Nancy's bra or whenever she went down on him: Steve had a dream about Billy. The dream was blurry, and all Steve got from it was a flooding sense of the other boy all around him, but it was enough to wake up with ruined boxers. That had happened the night after Billy had spoken to him in the bar, and Steve hoped the embarrassment wasn't etched on his face every time they spoke.

But there were more important things to worry about, like why Billy was acting so strange that night with the man and then disappeared. Through Steve's mind whirled thousands of thoughts about how Billy had probably been murdered, how he might have overdosed on some drug, how he was alone in the cold of winter. There was a lot of mystery surrounding the boy, and maybe that was why Steve wanted to unveil everything he could. 

After a week, Steve caught sight of Billy again, not in the bar. It was at the store, surprisingly, and while Steve pushed around a full cart of food and pointless items, only half-following the list his mother had left for him, Billy carried a basket with a meager collection of the cheapest products. And, okay. It's not like Steve couldn't _tell_ that Billy struggled with money, but seeing him in the store that day smacked him in the face with the reality. They hadn't spoken, but the relief that flooded through Steve's body was enough to make him worry about dreaming again that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to expand more into billy's pov/story so it may require more graphic/disturbing scenes... but i'll update tags and add warnings when necessary im sorry


	4. Chapter 4

Steve drove in silence, because Nancy didn't like it when he played his music too loud. The two were driving into the city to Nancy's house for an early Christmas celebration. Nancy and her family would be away when it was actually time for Christmas, but they all insisted that Steve came over and ate dinner with them before the went. As Steve drove, Nancy read a book and at one point, unconsciously reached for his hand, which he gladly took. They were so comfortable around each other, and Steve was so in love that sometimes he felt like he gained a year of life every time Nancy kissed him. 

When they got to the Wheeler house, Nancy was immediately thrown into hugs from her family and the people that seemed to be extended family. There were the Byers, a mom and two sons, one of which was the best friend of Nancy's little brother, Mike Wheeler. The two flocked to Steve, cheering and carrying on. Not much had changed over the years, and Steve always felt happier around the big mess of a family. The only thing that bugged him was the looks that Nancy and Jonathan, one of the Byers sons, would exchange, like they had secrets they shared and kept Steve out of. 

But Nancy never saw the other boy, so Steve had nothing to worry about. 

The whole group of them-- there was a total of ten people-- sat around an elegantly set table with big pots of steaming food waiting to be consumed. Steve sat net to Nancy, who had sat herself across from Jonathan. The three sat in an awkward silence, and as Steve examined Jonathan over bites of ham and mashed potatoes, he was reminded of his dream with Billy. Before things got out of hand in his brain, Steve placed a hand on Nancy's knee, resting it just soft enough to not be distracting, but hard enough to distract himself from Jonathan's dark, knowing gaze.

Dinner closed out with surprisingly minimal bickering between the siblings, and gifts were exchanged. Steve had gotten some cash from people, and Nancy sheepishly gave him a box and told him to open later, back in his dorm. His hands buzzed with anticipation. A few minutes later, she gave a similar-looking box to Jonathan and gave him the same instructions about opening it, and Steve suddenly felt less excited to tear it open. "Yo, Steve," A voice called. Turning, he saw Nancy's younger brother, Mike. 

"Hey, Man." Steve smiled, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a hug, patting him on the back. "Didn't get to talk to you much tonight."

"It's bullshit," Mike said. "There's no kids' table anymore but they still segregate us to one end."

Next to him, Jonathan's younger brother, Will, chuckled. He had always been the more reserved of the two, and in their whole group. Steve questioned, "Where's Dustin and Lucas? El? How come only Will came over?"

Mike frowned. "Everyone's busy around the holidays." He shrugged. "But we all miss you and Nancy."

Steve remembered being in high school, around the age that Mike and Will had to be then, and he remembered watching over them, babysitting in a way. He was naturally intwined in their lives thanks to his relationship with Nancy, and he had chaperoned many an arcade-date or movie outing. That young, nerdy group of boys were almost all adults then, too, and Steve had mixed emotions about that. He looked at Will. "How about you? How have you been?"

There had been a time, all those years ago, when Will had gone missing, turning up a month later unwilling to talk about what had happened. Steve still didn't know for sure what all the details were, and he wondered if Will's mother knew everything yet. Will seemed a little surprised by the attention, but he said, "I've been okay. High school's hell."

Steve laughed, loudly and genuinely. "Yeah," he sighed after the outburst. "I remember those days. Kids are dumb."

Will just shrugged, Mike looked at him warily. Glancing down at his shoes, WIll excused himself to the bathroom, and Steve was half-tempted to take it as a queue to go talk to

the kid, but he stayed standing with Mike, who was the first to speak after Will was far enough away. "They still make fun of him."

Steve bristled. "The same shit?"

"Not as often," Mike told him. "But enough."

Steve sighed, blood coursing with anger. "he just has to make it, what, two more years? Then he'll leave all those dumbasses behind."

Mike nodded. "That's we all tell him, but, I don't know, I still worry about him."

Before Steve could respond, Nancy slid into the spot next to Steve, wrapping her arm around his waist and tugging him close. For a moment, he forgot her exchange with Jonathan.

"Hey, brother." She smiled. "How's school been?"

Steve expected Mike to rehash what he had just told, but the younger boy spun a completely different story of success, excitement for the future, all total bullshit. Steve gave him a knowing look and Mike gave him one back that said, _please don't tell._

By the time the two left, Mike and Will were dozing on the couch, Nancy's parents were halfway into cleaning up the leftovers, and Will's mother and brother were idly helping, making small talk. Steve watched carefully as Nancy said goodbye, noticed how she hugged Jonathan longer than the others. Then he shook his head, told himself he was making stuff up out of jealousy-- but what was there to be jealous about? 

As he drove, he thought about it. They were ten minutes into the drive when Nancy whispered, "Hey," eyes drooping and body lax. "What's wrong?"

He considered confronting her about the tension between her and Jonathan, but in the end he blamed his mood for the things that Mike had told him. "I worry about those kids. It's like they're still twelve."

Nancy chuckled softly, grabbed Steve's hand. "It's like you care about them more than I do, sometimes."

"Well, you're Mike's sister, you grew up with his bullshit." Steve joked.

Nancy sighed. "Yeah, I guess. I can't believe he lied to me, though."

"He didn't want you to worry." Steve removed his hand from Nancy's to shift gears, then left his hand on the stick instead of grabbing hers once more. Nancy noticed.

"Are you... are you sure that's all that's bothering you?"

"Hm?" Steve shift gears again, going even faster. "Yeah, Nance. It's just a lot to worry about, you know? I halped those kids a lot when they were younger but I haven't been there for them and--"

"Well, you can't be their guardian angel," Nancy said. "Kids need to figure things out for themselves, sometimes. It's nice to help them when you can, but you're not their parent."

Steve relented, tried to appear relaxed. When he pulled into the student parking lot at campus, Nancy leaned over to him and whispered, "Lighten up, it's Christmas."

"It's not Christmas yet," Steve reminded her, shivering against her closeness.

"We can pretend." Nancy smirked, getting out of the car and practically dragging Steve across campus to his dorm, stopping every once in a while to kiss him and run her hands through his fluffy hair. She was more rough than usual, more hurried. 

"Slow down," Steve panted, closing his door behind him and peeling her jacket off. Nancy didn't listen and practically tore his clothes off. Later, he whispered I love you's into Nancy's skin wherever he kissed, and she would pull his mouth to hers, kissing him hard. 

When it was over, she was getting dressed before Steve had even caught his breath. "Where you goin'?" He pouted.

"You know the rules," Nancy said, voice shaking and smile wobbling. Steve pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at her as she buttoned up her coat, fumbling over the mechanics of doing up the fabric.

"You okay?" He asked, moving to stand.

"Yeah," Nancy said all too quickly. "You know, it's Christmas, the holiday emotions are running high."

She was gone before Steve could remind her again that it wasn't Christmas yet.

As Steve fell asleep, worry turning over in his mind, Billy prowled the streets just miles away. Business hadn't been good, and bills were coming up, and he didn't want to spend Christmas in his car. Gas was getting expensive, and if he went back to living in it, he'd have to refuel a lot more often than he did now, and the numbers swam dizzily through his head. Tim, the man with five-hundred dollars, had come back on more than one occasion, and despite his best efforts, Billy ended up blowing him a few times out of pure desperation. He hadn't been asking for much more, so Billy accepted his crumpled bills so long as the man did not try to get more. Outside of those interactions, there were few men who made to journey to Billy. He thought that maybe it was the holidays, and maybe his landlord would go easy on him just this month-- he had been impeccably perfect with his payments, and there was no reason to doubt the story he was forming in his mind, to try and pay only half of his bill for December.

Getting tired of the cold and knowing that his apartment wasn't much warmer, Billy drove to the bar, only to be disappointed that Steve wasn't in. He had to pay for his beer for the first time in months, and the exchange felt weird. He didn't even necessarily want the drink that he had paid for, but he swallowed every drop, knowing that he wouldn't be able to buy another one. 

As his drink emptied, he looked around the bar. In all honesty, he was tired of his brain buzzing in his skull. He was tired of thoughts of Steve, thoughts of Tim, thoughts of how he was going to make his next payment. So he scanned the bar, finding a few women that he could definitely land. He went to the bathroom, washed his face, sculpted his hair. It had been ages since he had been with a woman, or, really, anybody for free. He firmly believed that no matter how charming he was, a woman would never pay him for sex. And besides, he wasn't just looking for money, right? He was going to hit on those girls because he wanted enjoyable sex for once. He tried to remember himself from high school, how he had been a king among the girls, but his twenty-two year old face in the mirror was a stark reminder of how much he had aged since graduation.

He walked back to the bar, sat down next to a random woman who was drinking wine, and smiled. "Hey," He greeted lamely. He couldn't remember how to start conversations, especially ones that he hoped would lead him to sex. 

The woman turned to him, glanced up and down, taking in his body. He was fit, muscular, defined, and he knew that despite his lame introduction, she was into it. "Hi," She responded, taking a sip of her drink and licking her lower lip. Billy didn't like working for it, wanted to cut all of the bullshit between them and just fuck her, but he steadied himself.

"You here alone?" He asked, taking in her petite body and wide brown eyes. 

"I was with a friend," She told him. "But she left ages ago."

Billy cocked an eyebrow. "You stayed because...?"

"Because I couldn't let her be the only one getting laid tonight." She laughed, a sound that Billy interpreted as her trying to be seductive, and he smiled. 

"That would be a pity." He finished off his drink, letting his voice drop down into the gravelly-low range that he reserved for flirting, a strange, unused sound that attacked his own ears but seemed to draw the woman in. 

"What's your name?" She asked. Billy told her, but didn't ask for hers. She didn't seem to care. "Well, Billy, I'm getting bored in this bar. Is your place more exciting?"

Billy was struck with the thought of taking her, anyone, back to his apartment. It wasn't messy, it wasn't disgusting, but it was sad. Dilapidated and just _poor._ He told her honestly, "No, but I bet your place is."

The woman's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Probably," She slid off of the stool. "Let's find out." 

It was snowing when they exited the bar, and Billy climbed eagerly into the passenger seat, waiting for warm air to unfreeze his nose. It was a silent drive, a fast drive, a drive wherein Billy trailed his hand up her leg and entered the heat between her legs, making her jump and swerve, just slightly. By the time they got to her house-- a full house, not just a half-furnished apartment, she was a dripping mess in his hands. She moaned loudly and unapologetic as she rode him, tits bouncing wildly and ribs jutting out with her orgasm. Billy stared as she rode out her wave on him, then flipped them so he could get deeper, harder, and she nearly screamed. He was chasing a far-away feeling, one that grew stronger when he closed his eyes and covered her mouth with his hand in an attempt to quiet her. 

It had been shaky at first, his hands fumbling over the packet of the condom. It had been years since he last used one, since most of the men that fucked him did it all themselves, too eager to prep or be prepped. Her hands slid over him, replaced by her mouth, replaced by her body. 

He grunted toward his finish, dizzy with the effort and more exhausted than satisfied. Right before he came, he saw flashes of bouncing brown hair and a hand wrapped around a bottle of beer that became wrapped around something else, and then he was done, the image of Steve on his mind. "Fuck!" He exclaimed, angry and overwhelmed.

He pulled out of the girl, and she rolled away, gasping for breath, close to passing out in her drunken haze. It was clear that Billy was not invited to stay the night. He got up, hearing the woman already snoring, and collected his clothes. Before he left, he nosed through her pantry and cabinets, taking a few half-empty boxes of cereal and cans of soup. He grabbed a leftover box of Chinese takeout to eat when he got back to his apartment, carrying all of the items in his hands as he walked back to his on apartment, too tired to trudge all the way back to the bar for his car. He crashed when he got home, downed the Chinese food, and fell asleep, feeling not even a little bit better than he had before everything started just hours ago.


	5. Chapter 5

There had never been a tradition for Steve's family around Christmas. There was no designated house to go to, no long-lost family members to see, and most years they ended up messing up and celebrating a day early, and then having nothing to do the next day when all the shops were closed. That year was no different, with the added bonus of his mother working over time. She'd be in a different state, and then a different fucking country for Christmas and even into the New Year. His father spent some time with him, but eventually went out with friends, though Steve didn't know what a bunch of middle-aged men did for fun. He didn't want to think about it.

With Nancy away and all of his other acquaintances busy or breaking into hard drugs, Steve decided to run the bar, even though it was always the slowest time of the year. There was the occasional messy alcoholic, a few straggling girl-groups, and of course, there was Billy.

"No plans for Christmas?" Steve asked, approaching him in the then-empty bar.

Billy scoffed, "Hell no."

Steve ignored the way his stomach dropped like a stone and pushed pity up into his throat. "I did an early Christmas thing with family. Mom's working, dad's with friends. Seriously, who works on Christmas?" he said, a joke in his voice that died on his lips. 

"You are," Billy pointed out. "And I did, I just got off." He shrugged, saying it like the most casual thing in the world, like he had a normal job with a card to clock in and out with. And he hadn't really gotten off at all. 

"We're both losers," Steve sighed, melodramatically tilting his head back to sip his beer, exposing the hard lines of his jaw and the smooth expanse of his throat.

"Speak for yourself," Billy taunted, a small smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

Steve noticed the flicker of muscle tugging on his face. "So he has emotions."

The smile was wiped from Billy's face. "Fuck off," He grunted, but didn't really mean it. 

Steve glanced around the bar. "I think I'm gonna close early," He announced. "Nobody ever comes all the way out here for Christmas drinks, they all get wasted at home." 

"Oh," Billy nodded, trying not to physically deflate along with the tone of his voice.  
"You could come back to my place, if you want." Steve scrubbed hastily at the already shiny counter top. "Nobody should be alone on Christmas."

That's how Billy ended up driving with Steve to his house, nodding his head along to the music Steve had playing, smiling when the other boy turned it up. The drive was a little longer than Billy had expected, and when Steve pulled carefully into his garage, Billy had to actually remind himself to keep his jaw from dropping. The house was huge, with two floors, a basement underneath and an attic on top. In the garage were two other cars, all lined up, shiny and waiting. Steve shut off the engine and got out, the slam of his door echoing on the thin walls. Billy contemplated staying in the car all night, or for all of eternity, because there was no way he could step over the threshold without the place burning him alive with its expensive aesthetic. Steve knocked on his window "You coming?" He mouthed through the glass. Billy got out of the car. 

Steve's keys jingled in his hand as he whistled the tune of the song that had been cut off upon their arrival. The door he unlocked opened into a kitchen, wood step leading into clean white tile. Billy tried not to be impressed by the cleanliness, but there were some stains in his kitchen that he had labored over for hours and never made a dent, so the gleam on the floor amused him a little. Steve said, "Sorry for the mess."

They walked past an enormous refrigerator that made Billy's stomach growl at the idea of food options that extended past more than just questionable milk and a few boxes of various leftovers stolen or horded. 

The tile suddenly stopped and was replaced by red carpet, the kind Billy could curl his toes into. It, too, was stainless. To distract from the envy forming in the pit of his stomach Billy asked, "So, Steve, what are your big Christmas plans?"

Steve gave a sheepish smile, eyes glancing down and hair falling over his eyes. Billy had to remind himself to breathe. "I, uh, I was just gonna order pizza. Watch TV. Get drunk."  
"Sounds awesome."

They ended up on the couch, in front of a TV that neither was really watching, sitting on opposite ends yet close enough to easily pass a joint between each other. Somewhere along the way, the booze had turned into weed. When Steve offered it, Billy teased, "Wow, Steve-- What's your last name?"

"Harrington."

"Well, Harrington," Billy corrected, accepted a long hit of the smoke. "You surprise me." He blew the smoke out, right into Steve's face, and he hadn't realized they had gotten so close. Steve had been looking at the TV, and Billy ended up exhaling into his neck, almost his ear. He handed the joint back and slid away a few inches after seeing the other boy shiver.

The TV flickered on. 

"Hey, um," Billy began to speak, to try and push past what had just transpired between them. "I'm too wasted to go anywhere, you're too high to drive. Can I crash here? On the couch?"

Steve nodded, eyes distant. "Yeah, man. I'll get you a blanket." He got up and went to his room. Steve always slept with multiple blankets, and grabbed a random one to let Billy use for the night. He tossed it back to other boy and flopped back down on the couch, though he wasn't even sure what they had been watching was good. He squinted his eyes, focused. It was the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. 

"Fuckin' gay," Billy muttered, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and squinting against the harsh light of the TV.

Steve chuckled, but not because what Billy said was funny. "Why do you do that?" He asked. 

"Why do I do what?" Billy asked.

"You know," Steve started. "Call things gay all the time, say I'm a faggot."

"'Cause you are, Harrington." Billy was already half-asleep.

Steve hummed. "Maybe I should let my girlfriend know that." 

Billy opened one eye. "You got a girlfriend?"

A smile pulled on Steve's face and Billy wanted to punch it away. "Yeah," He sighed happily. "Her name is Nancy. We've been dating since junior year of high school. Four years, man." 

"Yee-fuckin'-haw," Billy said into the cushion of the couch. 

Then Steve asked, "What about you?"

"What?"

The elaboration was slow and hesitant from Steve. "Well, you have a girl? I mean, no family you speak of, there's gotta be someone keeping you around."

To replace the malice that could've be spit from his mouth, Billy just chuckled. "Nah, I'm more of a one-night-stand type of guy. Plenty of bitches in the sea, you know?"

There was something that left Steve unconvinced, but he was distracted by the overwhelming urge to pee, so he got up and staggered to the bathroom. He half-stumbled back down the stairs to find Billy holding the gift from Nancy in his hands, examining. "Hey," Steve hurried to take it back from him. Using all of the grace he had ever possessed, he grabbed it and nearly toppled over Billy with the effort. "Something important?" Billy asked. Steve looked down at the sparkling ribbon, the clean white wrapping paper. Nancy's smile flashed in his mind, and then the image of her handing an identical box to Jonathon replayed for him.

"Not really," He shrugged, but still put the gift gently down on the kitchen table. He couldn't say why he had been so pressed to get Billy away from the gift, when all it did was make Steve jealous. He didn't even know what was in it. After, when he walked to his room he called "Merry Christmas," down the stairs to Billy, but all got in response were snores and the Charlie Brown piano song.

Waking up the next morning was a blur for Steve. He felt colder than usual, and came to realize one of his blankets was missing, which then lead the details of the last night to slowly coming back to him. "Great fuckin' New Year," he groaned into his pillow, pulling himself from the warmth of his bed and going to the shower. He paused at the top of the stairs that lead down into the living room, heard Billy's snoring still, though the TV had been turned off at some point in the night. Still shivering, he let the water warm as hot as it could get before stepping in, gladly soaking in the sting of the heat as he scrubbed at his face with soap and ran fingers through his thick hair with conditioner to de-tangle the mess. 

Steve was in the shower for a long time, long enough for the mirror to fog over and the room to fill with steam. The water was beginning to turn cold by the time Billy woke with a start. He looked around at the unfamiliar house, the events from the previous night not coming back to him as clearly as they had for Steve. In front of him on the coffee table were empty pizza boxes and scattered beer bottles, and his stomach felt like a roller coaster. Swallowing the nausea rising in him, he turned his attention to the sound of water. He stood up, stretched, and ambled slowly around the house, trying to remember who he had gone home with. 

In the kitchen, he found a towering fridge that was plastered with pictures and papers. Billy had to stop and examine all of the pictures that included Steve Harrington to really confirm that, yes, he was in the other boy's house. There was one picture that really caught Billy's eye, a Polaroid that was a little darkened around the edges. In it was Steve, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a girl with shoulder-length brown hair and sparkling brown eyes. She was giggling, cheeks red as Steve pressed a kiss to one.

Then Billy remembered sitting on the couch with Steve and talking about girlfriends. He also remembered exhaling his smoke on Steve's skin, lips brushing up against right under Steve's ear--

Billy shook his head, threw open the fridge door and began making food. 

Steve's refrigerator had food, _real_ food, food that Billy could trust to actually nourish his body. There were a dozen fresh eggs and ripe fruits and vegetables that he could cut up, cheese with no mold, milk that wasn't spoiled. His stomach growled. He looked at the clock, and saw it was almost noon. Taking out a few eggs, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and the milk, he set to work.

As he cooked, he wondered if Steve would appreciate breakfast. Or lunch, if he had been awake for a while and had already eaten breakfast on time. Billy walked up the stairs and found the room where the water was running, but as he raised a hand to knock, the water was shut off. He hesitated as he heard Steve's soft hum, off-key but unwavering, and tried to pick out what song it was. Then it grew quiet.

Billy knocked, but the door had been just slightly ajar and it creaked open when his hand hit it. He saw Steve then, leaning over the sink, elbows locked tight and eyes squeezed shut. His hair was hanging over his face and around his head wildly, the towel that was wrapped around his waist having just been dragged through it. Billy's eyes caught on the single drop of water that was slowly dripping down Steve's back, catching on a dimple and disappearing into the cloth of the towel. His throat ran dry, and he cleared it.

Startled, Steve spun around to the sound, giving Billy access to stare at his flat chest, flat stomach, toned arms and-- "Sorry," Billy said, forcing himself to sound neutral. "I was making omelettes. Want one?"

He heard a loud growl from Steve's stomach, and he nodded. "Sure. Hey," He began as Billy turned away. "If you want to shower, you can. You can borrow some of my clothes." He extended the offer carefully, having noticed how often Billy re-wore shirts and pants and maybe he shouldn't notice those things but Steve couldn't let it go.

"Uh, yeah," Billy replied, a little surprised by the kindness. "After I eat something, I'm starving."

"Okay, I'll be down in a few minutes." Steve turned back to the mirror, picked up a comb and began working on his hair. 

Billy managed to get back into the kitchen even though his knees were wobbling. He grabbed more eggs and sliced more vegetables and mixed everything together, trying not to think as he cooked. 

There had been a time before, when Billy always cooked breakfast. Not for himself, but for his father. He had been expected to wake up earlier than the rest of the house and prepare his father's meal. He was the oldest, his step-sister Max couldn't be trusted with an open flame at that time. Billy took the brunt of his father's anger and his step-mother's plasticity, and as he stood in Steve's kitchen, he remembered how his father's hands had pounded their way into his skin and took all that they could, especially if Billy had slept in or tried going to school without doing what was expected. He understood, then, why he was just fine with taking leftovers and bowls of cereal over cooking himself hot meals.

A scream tore through Billy's paralysis. Steve was shaking him by the shoulders, snapping his fingers in front of his face. Billy blinked, and saw perfectly quaffed hair and worry-creased eyebrows. "Sorry," He said quietly. "Breakfast is ready." He had burnt Steve's omelette, so he gave the other boy his own, saying that he had lost his appetite. He went up to where he had seen Steve half-naked and turned the water on, stepping under the spray of lukewarm water that was rapidly growing colder. As usual, Billy grabbed the soap and scrubbed at his skin until it stung a little. Even after a night of little work, he still felt dirty.

He started in on his hair with shampoo that smelled like cologne, when he heard a soft knock on the door and Steve calling his name followed with, "I have a change of clothes here. Jeans, a shirt. Can I come in?"

 "Knock yourself out," Billy replied, closing his eyes and turning away from the curtain as the door squeaked open, trying not to think about the fact that it was the only thing separating Steve from his exposed body. He didn't open his eyes again until he heard the door click shut and when he did, he was surprised to find that he was hard. It had been a long time since he had felt any sort of arousal that wasn't forced or fake. The water was turning from bearably-cold to freezing, and everything quickly died down. He turned the handle to stop the water and dried off quickly, hair sticking up with friction and clothes swarming him with the smell of Steve, and he breathed hard as he exited the bathroom, forcing himself not to think about how he was _literally in Steve's pants_ \-- pants that had already been a little snug since Steve was less bulky than Billy, and weren't getting any looser with his crazy thoughts.

Billy thundered down the stairs and made a beeline for the front door to leave. "Billy--"

"Thanks for everything," Billy called, and he was out of the house before Steve could even offer to drive him home.     


	6. Chapter 6

After the incident at Steve's, Billy spent most nights at the start of the new year at his own house. He settled for lukewarm bottles of beer only slightly kept in his busted refrigerator rather than dealing with facing the other boy again. Some nights, the street Billy lived on was so quiet that he forgot where he was. Suddenly, he'd be drifting to sleep a million miles away, isolated and happy. There were other nights, most nights, when he would be kept awake by shouting and thumping and feet smacking on the pavement, police sirens a well-known lullaby. One thing that never happened, however, no matter how loud it was outside, was a knock on Billy's door. Nobody knew him, nobody bothered him. He always sought his landlord out to pay, and his stomach flopped at the thought that he had missed some bill and he was being evicted.

The last thing Billy expected to see when he opened his door, just a crack, was the man that had paid five-hundred dollars to fuck him. "Long time no see," He smiled.

Billy felt cornered, and for a moment he was paralyzed in the memories of his father throwing him up against walls, hitting him, cursing him, breaking him down. He blinked, tried to right the dizzying image of the world around him. "Go away."

The man stuck out his hand, flat palm smacking against the thin wood of the door. "So soon?" He asked. "What if I told you I have two-thousand dollars for you tonight?"

When he had come to Billy all those weeks ago and offered five-hundred dollars, Billy thought he would pass out from disbelief. "Bullshit," He managed to choke out.

He had been expecting a reaction like that from Billy, and pulled his hand out from his coat pocket, revealing a stack of twenties and one-hundred dollar bills. Billy's throat ran dry, and he remembered the blood and the embarrassment. But, five-hundred had paid off quite a lot, he couldn't even imagine how far two-thousand would take him. "Okay."

The money vanished back into the man's coat. "Great, let's go drink."

With shaking legs and uneven breaths, Billy got into his car and watched the road, hoping that the other man wouldn't go back to Steve's bar. When he did pull onto the gravel, Billy was tempted to vomit and refuse the man's offer, but he could almost smell that stack of money in the driver's seat and he forced himself to relax, or, at least appear relaxed. 

The bar was only moderately busy; it was still too cold out for the college students to sneak off campus to get wasted. Immediately, Billy scanned the area for Steve. He wasn't anywhere to be found, and Billy marveled at the feeling of relief that spread in his chest at that. "So, what do you have in mind?" Billy asked quietly. Around him, a few women tried to catch his eye but he kept his trained strictly ahead.

"Patience," The man hissed. "Let's just drink first."

So Billy allowed him to order alcohol and drank whatever he was given, careful to avoid getting wasted. He could be a good actor, no need to risk the real fogginess. Halfway through the third beer-- it hadn't turned into anything harder yet-- Billy's eyes locked onto the image of Steve coming out of the backroom, the same one he had let Billy sleep in his first night in the town. He was carrying boxes, forearms flexed from the weight and hips pushed forward to support what they could. Billy took a big gulp of his drink, then lowered his head.

"Why so shy?" The man asked loudly in Billy's ear, and he jumped.

"What'd'you mean?" Billy feigned ignorance. The man (Billy couldn't for the life of him remember his name) just narrowed his eyes. 

He then snapped his head in Steve's direction and shouted to him. Billy wanted to die. It didn't help that Steve's eyes slid right over the man sitting next to Billy and landed right on him, worry creasing his expression. "We need some whiskey," Tim, yes, his name was Tim, called. Billy wasn't sure what had sparked his memory. Maybe it was deja-vu. 

Steve nodded and set to getting the drinks, and then Tim declared that he needed to piss. Steve hurried over, knowing how fast the evil man could be. "Billy." All it took was the glint of his eyes to pull Billy apart.

"What, Harrington?" He spit, trying to get him to go, knowing that Tim would get jealous and potentially leave, taking his two-grand with him.

"Don't get mad," Steve began. "Is it drugs? Like, the hard stuff?"

Billy scoffed. "I wish."

The answer only further confused Steve, but he couldn't ask anything else because Tim had returned. "You're quite the chatty worker, huh?" He said as he slid back onto his stool, hands tight white fists. 

"Bathroom," Billy muttered, feeling like his lungs were caving in his chest. He knew that it was probably too risky to leave Steve alone with Tim, but he needed to catch his breath or else he'd fall apart in front of everybody.

The bathroom had been cleaned since his last trip there, and Billy hurried to the sink to scrub at his face, the usual post-work dirtiness creeping in early. He couldn't look at his reflection. The water helped a little to bring him back down to Earth, and he quickly dried his face before his body could take over and make him jump through the bathroom window to escape.

When he returned to the bar, Steve wasn't talking with Tim. In fact, he was at the other end, speaking with some girl that was leaning over a stack of papers. Billy took his seat and finished his beer. Carefully he asked, "Did he chat you up too? He never seems to stop." Billy threw a nervous laugh in at the end and hoped that Tim perceived it as annoyance or something less dangerous.

Rather than answer, Tim simply arched an eyebrow and said, "Finish your beer. We're going." Doing as he was told, Billy chugged the beer down, watched as the man easily withdrew cash to pay and then walked out, neither inviting Billy to follow nor looking back at him. Billy got up from the stool, blinking a few times to clear the dizziness forming in his skull, wondering if he drank more than he remembered. 

Tim began driving, and the world became more dizzy to Billy. By the time the two got to some hotel, he could hardly keep his eyes open. His heart hammered in his chest, but his limbs were practically frozen. "Let's go, whore." Tim walked around the car, yanked Billy from his seat and helped him limp into the hotel, putting on a front like he was helping a wasted friend and Billy couldn't make a noise to defend himself. The woman behind the counter stared at him with disgust as she gave Tim a key to a room, and by the time they got there, Billy had become completely rigid.

His head spun the word _drugged_ around, and it became a rhythmic chant as Tim took the Do Not Disturb sign and hung it on the doorknob before turning his attention to Billy. "You think you're so goddamn smart," He began, stepping closer. Billy stumbled back, barely catching himself on the wall. His knees buckled, he fell. Tim grabbed him by the scalp, sending pain ripping through Billy's body. "Look at me, bitch."

Billy blinked. 

Tim's tight white fist smacked into his jaw, cracking his head back and throwing him to the floor. Billy was curled limply on the ground and he understood what was happening. Tim, just like every other man that paid to fuck him, knew that Billy could kill him. He was built, and the muscles weren't just for show. The bastard had drugged him and would probably kill him in the room. 

Billy didn't know where all of the other man's strength came from. He was thin, wiry, and yet he pulled Billy to his feet and slammed his head down against the wall, making it ring and forcing his eyes to roll back in his head for a second. Maybe he was on some drug too. "You get off with that faggot in the bar, don't you?" He asked, reeking breath scraping along Billy's neck. "Bet he doesn't have to fork out two-thousand-fucking-dollars for it, either." He pulled Billy's head back, slammed it again. Billy couldn't tell which vibrated harder, the thin walls or his skull. 

Tim wasn't anywhere near done. He grabbed Billy by fistfuls of shirt and pushed him to the bed. All Billy could do was flop there. He was close to passing out; whatever drug that Tim had slipped him had not been strong enough to complete the job, but Tim seemed bent on doing it himself. Billy watched with double-vision as a knife was pulled from his pocket, and Tim moved forward and began slicing at his jeans, he wanted to scream to fuck off, those were his only good pair, and then he wanted to smack himself for being worried about that during the situation. But his thoughts were too jumbled for things so elaborate, so he just groaned as the knife brushed his then-bare skin. 

"Don't like that?" Tim asked, pausing with the knife hovering just above Billy's thigh. In a second, he was pressing down, slicing, drawing blood. Billy would have screamed, and maybe he was on the inside, but he couldn't even jerk away from the pain. Tim laughed, like he was amused by a comedy in a theater. "You can't do anything," He remarked. "I could kill you, and you couldn't fight that!"

He moved the knife up to Billy's throat, his own blood dripping on the blue of his shirt. 

Finally, Billy's eyes fell closed, though consciousness wouldn't leave him. To his left he heard glass shattering, and he hoped that someone would hear, someone would come save him, but he knew that nobody cared about a worthless prostitute being murdered by a sadistic fuck. Billy was trapped in his own body, helpless as the man cut away the rest of his pants, cut into his skin, played dangerously near to the most sensitive parts of his body.

One of Tim's cold hands wrapped around Billy's penis, rubbing it slowly. "You ever get hard?" Billy heard him ask, though his voice sounded like static. The pressure was gone.

"Doesn't matter." Tim rolled Billy over and unceremoniously started to fuck him, slicing him apart just as the knife had. 

Billy's whole body was on fire, and sometime after the fourth thrust from on top of him, he passed out.

Tim didn't leave any money for Billy. He left the hotel room after seeing that Billy was out, and didn't check to see if he was still alive. He took his orgasm and ran, leaving Billy exposed and alone, to be found by whatever poor maid was destined to find him. When she did, she screamed and ran to the front desk, demanded in broken English that the room be investigated. The same girl that had checked Tim in was still working and she lazily rolled her eyes as she got up to follow the frantic woman to the scene.

When she got there, she nearly choked on the gum she had been smacking. "Police," She muttered. She repeated the word a little stronger. When the maid didn't respond she slung into action herself, fleeing the scene to get to the phone at the front desk. 

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" A soft female voice asked after only one dial-tone. 

The clerk opened her mouth to answer, but she had to pause to vomit into the trashcan under the desk. When she returned to the line the operator was echoing, "Hello? Hello?"

"Y--yes," The clerk finally managed. "I think there's been a murder at my hotel." 

 

\---------

 

The year was 1994. Billy was 22 years old. He was from Indiana, but not born there, as there were no records of birth certificates to find in the state. Other than that, the hospital could find little record of who Billy Hargrove was. The driver's license in the empty wallet listed very little. He was an organ donor, though. 

The ambulance had arrived only ten minutes after the call was placed by the frantic hotel clerk, nothing had been so scandalous in years. The men and women that came expected very little, joked that it was some heroin-addict out of her mind. When they got to the room and saw all the blood, more than one of them had to step out to get fresh air. They began immediately, quickly determining that the boy on the bed was still alive before moving onto the huge mess of procedures that came next. There were questions to be asked, but the clerk behind the desk was so distraught that she could only wail and blubber in response to the questions the police posed.

There were a few things that were obvious. Someone had beaten and stabbed Billy. Someone had drugged him. The most tantalizing, though, was the fact that someone had raped him. The paramedics stabilized him on a stretcher and led him out, doing their best to cover him with shock blankets as they transported him to the local Mercy Hospital. He was unconscious for the whole ride, but his heartbeat stayed strong and unwavering, a good sign. 

Initially, doctors were overwhelmed by the amount of blood loss. There was nothing known about his blood type, so tests had to be run, wasting even more time. A few people set to cleaning him up, but then they had to wait for him to wake up to figure out what the hell had happened. They could piece together through tests and samples that Billy had a near-lethal amount of gamma hydroxybutyric in his system, an up-and-coming date-rape drug. One doctor, a young man with less than a year's experience under his belt, shuddered. "GHB? Fuck, man. Thought this shit only happened to girls."

His resident shushed him quickly.

A nurse bustled into the room then, brown hair a messy bun on her head, strands sticking to her temples with sweat. She was gasping, evidently having ran from wherever she was coming from. "They found... a phone number..." She began in between gasps. She paused, collected herself. "In his wallet. It could be anything, but it's the only thing we've got. Should we call?"

The doctor shrugged. "If it's all we got."

The nurse nodded and left, feeling excited by the spark of crime, then feeling guilty about her excitement. She went to the Intensive Care Unit's monitor desk and passed along the information. A woman slightly older than the nurse took the task upon herself with a great sigh, as if she were Atlas, carrying the world on her shoulders. 

She dialed the number on the scrap piece of paper, squinted while the phone chimed to try and decipher the chicken-scratch of handwriting above the numbers that appeared to say _Haringsun._

Finally, a young boy's voice answered the eternal ringing. "Hello, Cellar," his bored voice declared.

Faintly, the woman recognized the name as some bar out of the city that the younger nurses and doctors liked to go to. "Hello, I'm a nurse calling from Mercy Hospital in--"

"Mercy?" The boy cut in. "Shit, is it my dad?"

The nurse paused, puzzled on how to continue. She decided to proceed to the patient. "Well, I'm calling about a patient that was brought in around two in the morning." She glanced at the clock, seeing it was near four then. "His name is Billy Hargrove. Does that ring a bell for you, sir?" She wanted to remark that surely the man couldn't be a father, but what did she know about kids these days?

"He's a friend," the boy said quickly. "What happened?"

"Mr. Hargrove is in serious condition, and we have little information on him. The only help we have is a license from out-of-state, and a slip of paper with the number to your bar." 

"Shit-- I, well, I was just closing up. I can be there in twenty minutes."

As Steve drove, Billy woke up to the sound of steady beeping and the feeling of matches being lit all over his skin. He wanted to scream, but found he could not. His eyes slowly opened, protesting the very act. He recognized the whiteness of the place; the walls, the floor, even the blanket and gown that covered him, all of it was spotlessly white. A false mask to hide the dirty death that lurked in all hospitals.

Not immediately recollecting what had happened, Billy imagined himself as he was when he was thirteen years old. Before his life had been uprooted from California. 

He remembered seeing his arm bent in such a cartoonish, impossible way and thinking _, I deserve this,_ and his father grumbling something about boys being boys when the doctors asked for what had happened. He then remembered trying to come up with a million new sicknesses that could keep in the hospital forever, but his father had him out of the building as soon as the cast was set. Billy expected his father to come through the door then, just as angry as he had been nearly ten years ago, demanding an early release for Billy so they could go home and he could finish the job.

But his father never showed up.

Instead, a nurse appeared in his vision, and he blinked slowly at the image. It was a man, bald, eyes impossibly dark. "Hello," he said gently. "Glad to see you're awake, Mr. Hargrove. I just have to check a few things, and then we can talk."

Ignoring the introduction Billy slurred, "What happened?"

The nurse was scribbling things down on his paper, concentrating more on the machines than Billy. "The doctor can explain everything. Right now, I just have a few questions. You're pretty much a mystery."

Billy blinked.

"You are William Hargrove, born in the state of Indiana, twenty-two years old, correct?"

"No. I was born in California."

Eagerly, the nurse wrote that down. "Are you sexually active?"

"Yes." Billy hoped the nurse would ignore the weakness in his voice.

"Any drug use?"

Billy shrugged, but the movement hurt his body. "I drink. Sometimes." 

"Okay," the nurse said with a thin smile. "I'll get the doctor in here for you."

Not five minutes later, a tall man with short white hair entered the room, white coat a taunt to Billy. He knew, laying in the bed, that the doctor could see right through him, could see every bit of dirt and grime and shit on him.

"Hello, Mr. Hargrove," the doctor echoed the nurse's greeting. "I'm Doctor Brenner. I just have to ask-- do you remember how you got here?"

"Kinda foggy," Billy told the doctor, trying to remain neutral despite the memories playing in his mind like a movie. 

"Well, Mr. Hargrove, we found traces of the drug gamma hydroxybutyric--GHB-- in your system. This is a drug that is being used more and more in the act of sexual assault.

Now, typically, the victims are female, but if you remember anything about an assailant, then--"

"He date-raped me?"

The doctor didn't hesitate. "Was it a date?"

"Fuck no," Billy closed his eyes, a blinding pressure was building behind them. "I was at a friend's bar and I guess some faggot slipped something in my drink, knew he couldn't take me sober. Then I couldn't move, couldn't fucking fight back but I was awake. I felt everything he was doing, from the knife to his dick."

"So you were raped," Doctor Brenner concluded, no question in his voice. "We'll let you rest for a little, but first we need to--erm-- collect evidence so that we may isolate DNA and--"

"Can't we just leave it alone?" Billy asked, exhaustion slipping into his voice. "Can't we just leave it all alone?"

The doctor obviously had not expected a response like that. "Mr. Hargrove, I know you're upset, but--"

Billy wasn't the one to interrupt, then. It was the male nurse from earlier, peeking into the door. "The patient has a visitor. Technically visiting hours are over, but I didn't know if this was a special case."

Before the doctor could dismiss the nurse Billy asked, "Who is it?" Fear clutching at his heart.

"A mister Steve Harrington."

Billy looked at the doctor. "I'm tired. Tell him to come back when it's visiting hours or whatever."

The nurse looked to his boss, who simply shrugged. The truth was that Billy didn't want Steve to see him in that condition. The doctor frowned. "Very well. Before we let you rest, however, I'm going to report what you've told me to the police and they may be here soon to confer with you."

Billy let his eyes close, hoped the doctor would take the hint to fuck off. Billy couldn't be sure of his exit until he heard the soft click of the door shutting, and even though he knew he should try to get out of the hospital, he found that exhaustion and sadness flooded through him. He pressed the button for more pain killers, and let sleep take him.

 

\-----

 

Steve was biting his nails. Actually, he was working his way through one finger, and when he ran out of available nail he tore at the exposed skin, making it bleed. Next to him sat Nancy. She had been with him at the bar, driving in with none other than Jonathan Byers, and together they hesitantly probed Steve's father about a job. In the past week, things had been rocky between Nancy and Steve. They were occupied with completely different things, and as hard as Steve tried to listen to Nancy complaining about the bullying her brother's friend was going through, he couldn't tune in all the way. It had been too long since the kids had needed his help; he didn't know how to do it anymore.  
When Steve had gotten the call, he jumped for his car keys. "What's happened?" Nancy asked, peeling her eyes away from the draft of an essay. 

"A friend," Steve had rushed to explain. "He's in the hospital, in the city. I have to go."

Nancy had caught his sleeve, looked between him and Jonathan and for a moment Steve wanted to spit that she should just stay with him, but in the end she drove them to the hospital because Steve was too jumpy to get himself there in one piece. Jonathan at least had enough sense to not include himself, though the worried eyes he threw to Nancy did not go unnoticed by Steve.

The drive had been tense. "Which friend is this?" Nancy had asked, knowing very well that there were very few people that Steve would so quickly claim as friends, let alone rush to a hospital for at four in the morning.

"A friend," Steve spat back, bouncing his leg. He hadn't yet started attacking his nail.

Nancy let out an irritated sigh. Steve asked, "What?"

"Nothing," Nancy said quickly. 

"No, go ahead." Steve stared at her hard, and she kept her eyes on the road.

"It's nothing, Steve, God." She might have yanked the wheel a little too hard at the next turn, but she caught herself after and slowed the car down. Steve muttered something under his breath, something that Nancy could only pretend not to catch. "I don't get what your problem has been," she declared.

"Oh," Steve scoffed. _"My_ problem?" 

"Yes, _your_ problem!"

Steve tried to hold his tongue. But the anger pounded in his veins too hard to ignore. "Fine, my problem is Jonathan Byers. You've been awfully close to him, lately."

Nancy had laughed, the car swerved slightly. "Jonathan," she parroted. "Has nothing to do with this."

"He doesn't?" Steve asked, and he didn't know why he was hitting on the subject so intensely when the hospital was just five minutes away. "I'm sure that's the truth."

Nancy thought about her response, but before she could deliver it, she was pulling into the parking lot of the hospital's emergency entrance and Steve was hopping out, striding toward the looming building. Nancy could only follow.

She caught up to Steve as he was being pointed to the waiting room by a bored-looking secretary. He picked a random seat and he began looking all around, trying to find familiar faces in the saddest setting. The only one he could locate belonged to Nancy, and she sat next to him then, watching the floor as Steve bit at his finger. 

With a great, shuddering sigh, she began crying. 

This got Steve's attention, and he dropped his hand away from his mouth. "Nance," he sat forward. "Look, I'm sorry." _What am I sorry for?_

"No, it's--" Nancy hiccuped, covered her mouth with her hand and paused to collect herself. When she finally spoke, her voice wasn't broken. "I'm not angry about what you said. I'm crying because it's-- it's true, Steve."

To comfort Nancy, Steve had been rubbing slow circles on her back. He yanked his hand away like he had been burned. "What?"

"I--" Nancy sobbed again. Steve's vision was going blurry. "It was Christmas. I mean, I had been getting this weird vibe whenever I was around him and, and I just, I don't know, we were alone and--"

"What did you two do?" Steve asked, and his voice sounded like it was coming from somebody else.

"It was a kiss." Nancy's shoulders slumped. "But ever since it's been... becoming more."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Okay."

Nancy's frown split open, questions ready to spill out of her mouth. A nurse came over, interrupting them. "Excuse me, Mr. Harrington?"

"Yeah?" He asked, shutting out Nancy from even his peripheral vision. 

The nurse was a male, who was bald and frowning. "Technically it's outside of visiting hours but... If you'll follow me, we can check on Mr. Hargrove."

Billy nodded and rose, leaving Nancy in the waiting room. 

The nurse didn't make any small talk with Steve, though they got to a specific door when he stopped and said, "Wait out here, I'll ask about if you can come in."

Steve stood by the door, listening. The tired voice surprised him, and he did not recognize it as Billy's at first. _Can't we just let it all go?_   Then there was a muttering voice, probably the nurse or the doctor in the room. _Tell him to come back during visiting hours or whatever._

The nurse appeared again to tell him just that, and Steve hung his head as he walked back to the waiting area. Nancy was on her feet, watching and waiting. Steve saw the way she tensed when he caught her eye. When he got close enough he told her, "Go ahead and drive my car home. I'm staying here tonight."

"Steve--"

"No, Nancy. It's okay. I just have to stay here tonight." 

Nancy's chin wobbled slightly, but she nodded. Before she left she said, "We're going to talk about this, okay?"

Steve didn't answer her. 

For the rest of the night, Steve tried his best to stay awake. His mind kept going back to Christmas, to the identical gifts and the distant sex. He still didn't even know what the hell Nancy had given him, and the idea of finding out made him feel sick. He decided to put the gift in the back of his closet, far into the corner, and never open it. When he wasn't thinking about Jonathan and Nancy, together, he was thinking about Billy. His heart missed beats when he tried to imagine what happened. The image of the older man from the bar kept coming to his mind, and he had a sinking feeling that he had a lot to do with the situation.

Around six in the morning, Steve had dozed off. It wasn't until nine that someone had shaken him awake, gentle but firm enough to make him start. "Sorry, kid," A gruff voice said. He was dressed in a brown police uniform. "My name's Jim Hopper, I'm with the city police. I just want to talk with you, since you're our only connection with the patient."

"You haven't found his parents?" Steve asked, head buzzing with a headache forming from lack of sleep.

The cop frowned. "Well, he told us he was born in California and it's not like Hargrove is a particularly common name, but every time we try to contact someone, we end up nowhere."

Steve hummed. "Do you know what happened?"

Jim Hopper paused for a second, looking over Steve. "What exactly is your relationship with him?"

The question was innocent enough, but Steve still bristled. "We're good friends," he said. "I think I'm his only friend."

"Well, I might as well tell you," Jim began with a sigh. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead."

The taller man let himself half-sit half-fall into the chair next to Steve, pulled his hat off to appear more sincere. "Your friend is in pretty bad shape." For a moment, Steve almost put his finger back in his mouth, but he forced it to remain on his lap. Jim Hopper continued on. "He was found in a crappy hotel not too far away from your father's bar. He was beaten, stabbed, and sliced. He was also raped."

Each verb hit Steve like a brick thrown at his face out of the window of a moving car. Gingerly he asked, "Do you know who did it?"

"He won't tell us." Jim answered. "But we've collected samples, we're gonna run our tests."

The only thing Steve could think to ask then was, "When do visiting hours start?"

"They started about fifteen minutes ago. I just spoke with Billy-- Mr. Hargrove."

"I'd like to go see him, sir." Steve said quietly. 

"Of course you do," Jim nodded. "I'll take you back."

In all his life, Steve had never been so close to a police officer. Sure, he had called them a few times when a costumer got too rowdy, but he had never walked with one down a hospital hall, and he hoped he would never have to again. Jim Hopper stopped a few feet away from Billy's room. "Brace yourself," he advised Steve. "Try to get answers out of him, if you can. He's more likely to talk to you than to authority. Understandably."

Steve took a breath, and then entered the room. Billy was laying in the bed, propped up slightly by pillows. He was looking out of the window across the room. There was another bed in the room, but it was vacant. Billy looked like a fraud, like someone had dressed up in Billy's skin but didn't quite fill it out. There were bruises decorating his body. His earring was missing. When Steve greeted him, his eyes closed. 

"What are you doing here, Harrington?" Billy asked, but his voice sounded miles away.

"I--" Steve felt stuck. "They called me." Billy seemed surprised by this. Steve went on to explain, "I was told they found a scrap of paper in your wallet with the number to the bar."

"Fuck," Billy sighed. He could remember scratching it down after he had been empty handed in the phone booth, the following time he went to see Steve. Just in case he would ever need it. That had been a while ago, why the hell had he kept it? 

Steve couldn't quite describe how the other boy appeared to him in that moment. He had never been good with words, that much was clear in his essays, and the only thing that came to him was _defeat._  "Is it true?" He asked Billy, so quietly that he wasn't sure if he asked the question out loud. 

"Does all of this seem like a lie?" Billy returned. He still wouldn't look at Steve.

"Look at me," Steve asked. "Billy, please."

Finally, the other boy turned his head, eyes dragging slowly up Steve's body, landing on his face. "You don't have to be here," was all he said.

Tears were stinging Steve's eyes. "Yes, I do."

Billy closed his eyes. "'M tired."

"I'm going to be here when you wake up, Billy. I'm not leaving."

"You can tell the cop to fuck off, too," Billy muttered.

"He wants to help you." Steve was torn between storming out of the room and collapsing into the chair across from Billy's bed. He imagined himself climbing into the bed with Billy, curling up against him for warmth and comfort and the security that the other boy was _alive._ He had to shake his head to clear it all away.

"Want to help me?" Billy reiterated, a look of disbelief on his face. "I need to get outta here."

"Billy," Steve said, voice taking a serious turn that frightened him. "Who hurt you?"

The disbelief fell from his face and Billy became unreadable. "It doesn't matter."

"They have evidence, they're going to get the answers eventually. Don't you see?"

"Yeah, but it takes longer that way." 

Steve ran a tired hand through his hair, and it bounced back up, refusing to flatten. He decided to talk about something else. "My girlfriend cheated on me." 

Saying the words made them more real, but strangely Steve did not feel saddened. Billy simply hummed, though the beeping of his heart monitor increased slightly. To cover he said, "And I was nearly killed after someone raped me. We're really facing tragedies aren't we?"

The bitter sarcasm was worse than a slap to the face. Steve sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm just trying to talk with you. I don't know what else there is." 

"Yes, you do." Billy said. He shifted slightly, and then groaned. Immediately, Steve tensed and asked if everything was okay. "It just hurts to move," Billy told him. Steve could only watch as the look of pain etched on Billy's face slowly faded away, leaving him with a frown cutting through his skin and eyes sunken further into his face than Steve had ever seen. It looked wrong. "I'm sleeping now."

And, unceremoniously, Billy fell asleep. Steve stood for a minute, too tired to do anything. He sank into the cushioned chair and draped his coat over himself, and slept some more. It wasn't until noon that he woke up to a growling stomach, only to find Billy's bed empty, traces of blood marring the whiteness of everything else. 

Steve's stomach dropped. "Billy?" He called, though he reminded himself that the other boy had been hooked up to IVs and couldn't have just gotten up and wandered to the bathroom, right? But when he called for a nurse and asked where his friend had gone, her face had turned ashen and she sprinted away. A few moments later a dusty voice announced, "attention staff, there is currently a code purple underway. Repeat, code purple."

Behind Steve, Jim Hopper chuckled. "Your friend is quite the runner, huh."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the years are a little off from the show because im a fucking idiot but oh well sorry


	7. Chapter 7

_Snow was falling. There was a chill in the air that worked its way through coats and into the bones of the young adults laughing and running. Steve was among them, back in high school, senior year. Nancy was with him, and together they spun and danced in the powder and built snowmen and threw snowballs. Their classmates were all doing the same activities, and there was hand-holding and kissing and shouting and laughing. Steve grabbed Nancy and pulled her in for a kiss, beneath the nose of their impossibly tall snowman. Something rough bristled Steve's cheek, and when he opened his eyes, it wasn't Nancy he was kissing._

_Billy's wet lips turned into a sharp smile and he spoke but his voice sounded disconnected from his body. "What's wrong, Harrington?" The snow was melting away, his classmates were vanishing. "It's fine," Billy laughed, but why would he laugh? "I'm fine," he repeated, blood beginning to drip from his nose. Steve watched in horror as a bruise bloomed on Billy's neck, on his cheek, over his eyebrow, a fine slit opening and cascading blood as well. "Don't worry," Billy insisted, but his voice was warped by blood, choked and gargled._

_Steve leaned to him, tried to kiss him, but Billy was gone._  
_There was nothing, and Steve felt the overwhelming sense of his lips tingling and his heart doing gymnastics in his chest. Billy's voice whispered over and over in his head I'mfineI'mfineI'mfine but Steve saw a knife plunging into his skin and--_

Steve woke with a start. There was dried drool on his cheek, wetting his shirtsleeve. He sat up, noted that he was in his seat for class, and looked toward the clock that hung on the wall above the teacher's podium. It was nearing four P.M., and the class only went until 3:30.

From his desk, the professor looked up. "I thought you'd sleep forever. I was going to leave you for the custodians to handle."

Steve rubbed his eyes, ran his hands through his hair. "Sorry, professor," he muttered. He began collecting his things, angry that he had slept through the whole lecture but still captured by the dream he had been having. As he made his way down the aisles the teacher called, "You okay, kid?"

 _Kid,_ Steve thought. _I wish._ "Not sleeping too good," he shrugged. "It's whatever."

The professor nodded, concern still etched on his face. It was a big campus, huge. Steve wasn't offended that he didn't know his name, in fact, he was surprised that the professor cared at all to even ask. He shuffled out of the room after a brief goodbye, head hung low in shame. He'd have to hurry to get the bar on time, and he didn't have the energy to do any hurrying. He got to his dorm room and threw himself on the tiny bed, head still foggy from sleep. 

His whole body was buzzing, and he was reminded of how it felt in the dream to kiss Billy. 

Steve got out of bed and made his way to his car to drive to the bar. 

These episodes had been becoming a common occurrence. Steve would stay up late into the night, later than usual if he wasn't working. If he did work a shift, then he usually wouldn't bother going to sleep at all. It wasn't that he was so busy that he didn't have time to sleep, it was that he dreaded the idea of sleeping and either missing out on some revelation about his missing friend, or, he would have a dream like the one he had just woken up from.

There was no kidding himself, it was evident that he was very curious about kissing Billy Hargrove. The thought bothered him. Billy had called him a faggot the first time they met, and he had been dating Nancy. What if he was doing things all wrong? What if that was way Nancy cheated with Jonathan?

Steve hadn't spoken to her since, even though she promised they would before leaving the hospital that night three weeks ago.  
Exhaustion flooded him as he pulled into his typical spot outside of the bar. Getting out felt like lifting a one-thousand pound weight, and walking to the door was like lifting another. 

The night was normal, for the most part.

"Hey, kid," a gruff voice greeted him one night and what was it with people calling Steve _kid?_  It was the middle of March. The air was chilled, but the season for snow had passed. Steve looked up to see the harrowing figure of Jim Hopper, the policeman who had spoken with him in the hospital. He looked bigger, somehow. Maybe it was the bushier facial hair. "What's cheap?"

Steve was dazed, and blinked a few times. He was definitely a little surprised by the man's appearance. Did Hopper know something? Instead, Steve passed over a tall glass of alcohol and said, "There you go." He then forced his legs to walk away from the guy before he could open his mouth. The bar was fairly empty, so he went into the back closet and closed his eyes. It had to be safe to leave the business with a cop, right?

Steve didn't worry about that. Instead, he prepared his mind to hear about the disaster that had surely befallen Billy, because that had to be why the policeman came all the way out to the shitty bar by the shitty outskirts of town. It definitely wasn't for the beer.

"Shit. Fuck. Shit." Steve counted to ten, then went back out.

Jim Hopper was still there, sipping away at the beer. He was drinking slowly, taking his time, eyes following Steve around. Steve went to another patron, a woman who was already drunk and approaching the edge of a void, but Steve gave her another shot anyway. She stumbled away to one of the tables and collapsed in the seat and Steve heaved a sigh loud enough for the cop to hear and say, "Long day?"

Steve shrugged. "It's been a long two months." Then he decided to stop beating around the bush. "Do you have any news?"

"About your friend?" The Chief asked, feigning ignorance, forcing Steve to confirm.

"Yeah, Billy."

"I've heard some things," Hopper said. "Maybe you want to come closer so I don't have to say them so loudly."

Steve swallowed hard, and forced his legs to walk back over to the other man. "Okay."

"Well," the other man started, finishing his drink with one big gulp. "The DNA we collected from him was processed, and the results came in a few days ago. You have to understand, Steve, it was a large amount of evidence, there's no way we never would've found out. Anyway, before we threw him away we interrogated him for information, see if he knew anything, you know?"

Steve nodded.

Jim continued, "He told us that he had seen Billy before, a few times. That Billy is a prostitute, selling himself for money."

There was a moment where the lights in the bar seemed to dim. Then, impossibly, Steve cracked a smile. "Billy?" He asked. "A gay prostitute? Impossible, he's straighter than a pole."

It was Hopper's turn to shrug. "Well, even poles can bend under enough pressure."

Steve's mouth opened and closed. A fish out of water in the ever-dimming lights. "I... What else did he say?"

"Not much," Jim told him. "He gave us a few other names. I've been tracking the other men down to talk to them, but it seems like every time I try to pull up in my police cruiser, they vanish." He raises his glass, indicating his want for another drink. Steve goes to get it, mind racing away.

"Don't go in your cruiser, then." Steve felt an irritating jab of anger, but he didn't want to be angry at Jim Hopper. So he said, "I have an idea, give me the names. They won't think to run from some kid."

Jim Hopper smiled a little sadly. "I can't do that. Confidential information."

"Right," Steve said quickly. "But what if, let's just say, you stumbled upon the phone book that my father keeps here, and you circled the names you're looking for. Then I see the ones you circled, it's not like you gave the information away, you just happened to leave your book behind." Steve's eyes were blinking rapidly, trying to keep up with his speedy mouth as he rationalized his plan. He hoped the men were listed in the county. 

Steve didn't really think that the police would do that, but when Jim nodded nearly imperceptibly, Steve practically shouted with glee. He was going to find Billy. At first, he had romanticized the idea of saving his friend, pulling him out of whatever situation he had been stuck in, and soon the romanticized ideas started involving romance. And maybe Steve didn't know exactly how to feel about that, but he knew he didn't feel sad when he though about kissing Billy. He pulled the old book out from the closet and left it on the counter, far enough away from the Chief that he'd have to reach for it. Then he walked away, and didn't go back to Hopper until the bar started to clear out. By then, the other man was gone, the thick book left in his place.

The outside was torn on the corner, but other than that it seemed untouched. Steve grabbed it and began scrutinizing every page for marks of identification from Hopper, and began to grow disappointed half-way through when he hadn't found anything. Maybe he had been seeing things, and Hopper had never nodded. 

Then he flipped to a page marked with a napkin, and with shaking hands tore it out, folding it so that the circled name and address could be seen. 

He stuffed it in his pocket, and hid the book away back in the closet.

Driving back to campus at three in the morning was surreal. He should wait to go to the address, it was crazy to think he'd get answers out of a man at three in the morning. Besides, it was an area he had never been to before, so he wanted to look over his maps to see what it was near, if there was anything to protect him with familiarity. Steve never drove anywhere that he didn't know how to get to already, so he ended up borrowing a city map from his father, though he didn't ask for permission because he didn't want to explain.

For two days, he slept. He called his father from the payphone on campus to tell him that he was sick with some stomach thing and couldn't come in, and he just slept. When he wasn't sleeping, he was pouring over the map, memorizing every detail and street name and business center. Maybe he was stalling. Maybe he was scared. Scared to see what someone who pays young boys to fuck looks like, scared of what that man might do. A smaller part of him was nervous about getting there and then having the man deny everything Steve was accusing him of, and then he'd be no closer to finding Billy.

On the third day, Steve woke up around five in the morning and got up to get dressed. The room, the air, his heart, all of it seemed still. He was nervous beyond the point of shaking. Nervous, scared, but hopeful. 

He paced for a long time, blasted some of his music loudly, stared at the map for an hour. He could blink and see its image behind his eyes, he knew it so well. Time slipped by him in his procrastination, and he wasn't out of his dorm until ten-thirty, the sun high in the sky and his heart rate slowly rising. 

The paper and his memory directed him to a neighborhood of richies; folks that had more than even Steve's parents. Steve thought he was well-off, but he was living in a cardboard box compared to the streets of mansions that he was driving through. 

This made him angrier for some reason. All he could think about was an old man with millions of dollars spending so little of it to fuck Billy. Then he was caught on the idea of fucking Billy and he shut off his brain again, focusing on the numbers on the houses. They slowly went up by odds. _1123, 1125, 1127,_ there, _1129._ Steve pulled along the curb and shut the engine off.

Before he could second-guess himself, he marched up to the door and pounded furiously, though it was still relatively early. Eventually, after not relenting for two minutes straight he heard a tired voice calling, "alright, alright!" 

The door was opened, but not before Steve listened to the clicks of locks being twisted and turned and released. Finally, a man was revealed, and he wasn't as old (or as hairy) as the demon Steve had envisioned. He was probably in his mid-forties, with a beer gut and a thin head of hair that was sticking up stiffly. Steve guessed that he had woken the man up, boo-hoo.

"What do you want?" He asked, and his voice was a nasally whip of a sound that made Steve's nose feel stuffed.

Calmly, he asked, "Are you Mr. Weston?" God, even the name annoyed Steve.

"Yes, who are you?"

Steve let his eyes linger on the silk the man had wrapped around his shoulders, bile rising in his throat. "I'm a friend of Billy Hargrove."

"Who?"

The man's easy denial made Steve see red. "Billy Hargrove," he repeated. "The boy you pay to fuck."

Suddenly, understanding flashed in the man's eyes and the color drained from his face. "Get away from my house," the man ordered in a voice as low as he could get it.

"Is your wife home?" Steve asked, tilting his head back to see over the man's shoulder. "Should I call to her, tell her about your hobby, or are you going to answer my questions?"

"Look, kid, how much money do you want?" The man reached beside himself for something, maybe a wallet, maybe a gun. Steve's stomach churned. It was all about money to these men. 

"I want you to tell me where I can find my friend."

"Excuse me?"

"You see, he was raped. Violently, viciously. A lot of evidence was left behind, the cops found the guy. Pretty soon he's gonna be naming a few names..."

"What!?" The man was frozen, eyes wide. 

Steve stepped forward, toes crossing over the threshold of the house. "Tell me where I can find my friend."

The man sputtered out a street name, then a neighborhood block, even detailed the surrounding businesses and roads. Steve nodded, turned away. "Hey!" The man called. "You ain't gonna turn me in?" There it was, Steve noted, the posh tone slipping away, revealing the emotion under the man's skin. 

Steve let the slow smirk spread on his face. "You fucking sicko. How do you think I got here? They already know all about you." Then he smiled. "Jim Hopper sent me."

Steve was only satisfied when he heard the man gasp for breath before slamming the door hard enough to echo down the quiet street that seemed too empty, too guarded. He got in his car, and drove. He was astounded that the man had given him information so quickly and easily; he had prepared himself for a fight, for a man who would try to defend his sexuality. Instead he confronted a coward of a man, interested in placating the masses and nothing more. 

Steve drove to the area the man told him of, but after prowling the alleys for an hour and finding nothing, he went home. He thought that maybe the man lied, didn't know where to go from there. He didn't go back to the college dorm, but his house. He saw his father's car in the driveway, and a small, beat-up vehicle that was a little rusty around the bumper but shiny red in the light of the sun. He pulled behind his father's car, walked up to the house not knowing who to expect.

The front door was unlocked-- his father was always forgetting to lock the damn thing. Steve entered smoothly and heard a burst of laughter from the kitchen. There was his father's loud, deep chuckle, but it was drowned by the tinny laughs and snorts that Steve recognized, but didn't want to get his hopes up over. He passed under the archway and--

"Steve!" A chorus of voices shouted. Sat in his kitchen were all of the kids that he had helped back when he was in high school, a small group, but a handful nonetheless. Mike and Will from the Christmas gathering were there, accompanied by the other members of their gang, Dustin and Lucas. "Guys?" Steve asked, trying to remain serious, but the smile that split his face was blinding. The kids came up for hugs and fist-bumps. "How'd you shitheads get here?" Steve asked once they all settled down a little.

"Lucas got his license," Dustin told him, slight lisp ever-present. "Drove us here himself."

"Ah, don't waste gas on me," Steve chuckled. "Congratulations, buddy."

"Thanks, man." Lucas smiled.

Steve asked how they were all doing, and they all reiterated that they were doing fine, school was good, grades were holding up. After a pause, Steve's father cleared his throat and said, "I have some work to do in the garage if you need me," and pushed away from the table and walked out. 

Steve sensed the tension too. "What's wrong?"

Mike was the one to explain, words bursting from him like he had been holding them in for years. "We know that you and Nancy broke up."

This was it, Nancy sent her little brother and his friends to do her dirty work. Steve deflated. "Yeah, I guess." 

"I mean, she didn't tell us," Mike quickly added. "But I figured it was obvious when I caught her making puppy-dog eyes with Jonathan."

"Totally gross," Dustin added.

"Are you okay?" Will's tiny voice asked. 

Steve made himself stand up straighter, puff out his chest a little. "I'm okay." He felt Dustin looking at him, but wouldn't look back. Years ago, when he had been babysitter and friend to the kids, Dustin had always been the one he was closer to. The kid was funny. He was also the one that needed the most watching. 

The boys all began chatting about Nancy and Jonathan and how it was weird, and Will argued as gently as possible that everyone seemed happy. "No, do you not understand?" Lucas interjected. "Bro code."

Steve raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly, Dustin turned to Steve. "Your pool open?" he asked, referring to the pool in Steve's backyard. 

"Dustin, it's March. You can't go swimming." Steve deadpanned.

"Not if you're a pussy, maybe." There was a playful challenge in his eye.

Steve relented, not quite remembering how to keep up with the sarcasm. "Fine. But if you little shits get pneumonia or something, it's not my fault." He smirked. "You're all adults now."

The boys laughed and the girls protested a little, but eventually they made their way out of the back door, toes dipping tentatively into the water and then feet retreating back into the grass. Dustin held back, knowing eyes accusing Steve of the crime of not being transparent. "How bad is it?" He asked.

"How bad is what?"

"The whole thing with Nancy," Dustin amended. "I mean, it was a four-year relationship. You don't have to lie to us."

Steve glanced outside. The kids were shouting dares at each other to jump, throwing insults that they didn't really mean. "Like I said, I'm fine." Steve couldn't look Dustin in the eye. "I've been worried about some other stuff."

"What stuff?" Dustin pressed. At Steve's reluctance, he said, "Come on, you said it yourself. I'm an adult now! Tell me your adult-problems."

Steve's mouth twitched a brief smile. "I think you'd hate me if I told you," Steve told him honestly, and that was the scariest part of it all. 

The words seemed to personally offend Dustin, who scoffed. "Steve, you're impossible to hate. Okay, I mean, I hated you a little bit when I was younger. A lot, actually, but that was before you were cool."

"Thanks," Steve frowned.

"Seriously. What's bugging you? I won't tell the other guys, if you don't want me to." Dustin offered.

Steve scratched at his neck. uncomfortable. "There's just this dude at school," he began, lying to dance around the truth.

Dustin's face grew serious with concern. "Beat his ass, Steve. Don't pretend you're better than your high school days."

If anyone else had said it, Steve would be hurt. But it was Dustin. "It's not... not like that."

"Then what?" Truly puzzled, Dustin waited for a bomb to drop.

Steve fumbled over his words for a few moments. Then he began, "You know all those years ago, when you had a crush on that girl, and didn't know how to handle it?"

"Duh. I was embarrassed harder than ever," Dustin nodded.

"Well, it's like that spark I told you about. The electricity. Right now it's the calm before the storm, and I'm waiting for that electricity." 

It was out in the open, and Steve waited for the disgust, the hatred, the shunning. Dustin said, "What's that have to do with-- oh," understanding washed over his features, and Steve dropped his gaze to the floor. "You _like_ this dude from school. _Like-like_ him,"

"Shut your trap," Steve snapped, though he lacked the energy to really enforce it. "I don't know if it's like that, I-- I never thought about a guy like that and... and it might just be worry, or, or--"

"Steve." Dustin's voice was a mixture of patience and irritation, if that was possible. "Don't freak out. You helped me through my crushes, as dumb as they were."

"I don't know if it's a crush," Steve insisted.

Dustin's eyebrows pulled in confusion. "Well, think about how you felt with Nancy. Is it anything like that?"

"A little..." Steve hesitated, wondering why he had even told the kid. "But also not at all. I don't know if it should feel the same."

"Maybe you should talk with him."

Steve laughed, a sad bubble of noise that quickly ended. "I wish. He's... I haven't seen him in a few months."

"Why not?"

"It's complicated." 

Like before, Dustin wasn't satisfied with the answer, but before he could push Steve for more information the sliding-door to the pool opened and Mike's voice called, "Dustin! Are you gonna join your own challenge or not?" The door slammed closed, and Steve flinched at the sound.

The mood had shifted for the younger boy though. "I'm not gonna tell them," he promised. "Join us if ya want." He scattered off to the pool and Steve sat at the table, head in his hands, collecting himself.

Miles away,Billy was in a club. A sweaty body rubbed against Billy, and he leaned away. He kept his eyes down, still freaking out. The man who was paying him brought him to the club, a gay club, and then Billy had lost him in the crowd and other gay men were trying to get with him. Billy couldn't just leave, he hadn't gotten paid. He stood in the flashing of the techno lights like a zombie with two left feet, but when the hundredth dick of the night ground on his ass he rushed his way to the exit. Pay or no pay, he couldn't handle a place like that.

He burst away, pushing past the bouncer who just spit at him, called him a fag, but Billy kept walking. He picked up speed, and eventually broke into a run, and before long he found himself standing outside of his apartment. It had been nearly three months, and Billy hadn't slept a night there. He was too afraid of Tim returning. He took his chances in the darkest, dampest corners of the alleys with nothing more than a sweater and his thin blanket wrapped around his shivering body. He knew that rent was way past-due. He knew his landlord would have no trouble tossing his stuff out on the street after a day of no pay, but he guessed he missed that moment and his stuff was looted away by other desperate people. There wasn't much of importance in the apartment, anyway. Except the near three-thousand dollars he had saved up over the months. 

Yet he couldn't bring himself to walk inside.

It had been where that night had all started, and he felt sick just looking at the building. He hadn't seen the man since that night, and all of his bruises had healed except for the gash on his thigh, which was beginning to fade into a long white scar. He couldn't leave the state. He had no gas, and all of his savings, every cent of the three-thousand dollars, were in the place he was terrified of stepping foot into. 

He went to his most popular alley, and waited. Sure enough, within the hour a man came looking for an easy orgasm. Billy was good at what he did, it was the only reason he wasn't dead.

The man shoved wrinkled bills his way and said he didn't want to wait to go anywhere, Billy could suck his dick on the dirty ground like the dirty slut he was. So Billy dropped to the gravel and did what he was being paid for.

Thundering down the road only a few blocks away was Steve. Dustin's voice saying maybe you should talk to him looped in his mind and kept him dizzy with hope. The boys spent a half-hour dicking around the pool but not actually swimming before leaving and telling Steve to keep in touch. Steve could barely focus enough to tell Lucas to drive safe. He parked in a random lot and got out, forgetting to lock his car in his hurry. Steve paced up and down the sidewalks once more, only barely managing to not start shouting out Billy's name. He turned a corner and halted, sounds catching his ear. There was a low groan, almost a growl, and wet noises, then someone hushing someone else harshly. 

Steve spun around the corner, and sure enough, he saw Billy Hargrove, on his knees in the dirt and piss and shit, sucking another man off. 

No exclamation escaped him. He simply watched as the man ripped at Billy's hair and choked him with his dick and didn't care that Billy had the angriest look on his face, full of disgust and hatred. The man came after an eternity of jabbing at Billy, and Steve watched as Billy spit his semen out into the dirt and piss and shit. 

Then they parted ways, Billy going deeper into the alley and the stranger walking toward Steve, nearly knocking him over in his attempt to run away. Steve had been so enraptured with the scene that the man knocked the breath out of him with a gasp, and Billy whirled around, eyes wide in the glow of the moon. His cheeks were shiny with tears, mouth red, slightly agape.

"Billy--"

The other boy broke into a run, disappearing into the smelly alley and whipping his body around the corner at lightening-speed. Steve staggered to follow him, picking up the speed he had barely touched since his days of playing high school basketball. Billy was quick, but the alleys were narrow and hard to navigate while maintaining speed. Steve saw him trip over a corner, and thundered on, shouting out to him. Though Billy knew the alleys well, he eventually ran into a dead end, and collapsed onto the ground, panting and putting his head in his hands. 

Steve trotted up to him, wheezing, doubled over hands-on-knees to catch his breath and rest his burning lungs. "Billy," he panted.

"Go the fuck away," Billy's voice called, muffled by his hands. 

"No," Steve said firmly, spitting the opposite way into the dirt. "Fuck. Stand up," he ordered, and Billy ignored him. "Billy, stand the fuck up."

Billy was oddly quiet, and Steve was reminded of him in the hospital, wasted and ghostly. Steve grunted angrily and grabbed at his arms to yank him to his feet, but Billy was dead weight in his hands. Steve puffed out a sigh and sat on the ground too, next to Billy, knees knocking. "I'm not leaving."

"Then I guess you're sleeping out here tonight." Billy muttered.

"If that's what it takes." Steve shrugged, wishing he had a cigarette. As if he read his mind, Billy pulled one out and lit it. Steve took the moment to look at the other boy's face, and felt relieved to see how healed it was. There was nothing remaining of the boy in the hospital bed except for the scars on his legs, but Steve couldn't see those. So he said, "You look better."

Billy hummed, closed his eyes, took a long drag of his cigarette.

"I've been worried," Steve tried. Billy hummed again. "At least tell me you have an apartment. A hotel room. Shit, something." 

For the first time, Billy looked at Steve, and Steve could see the glaze over the boy's eyes, dead looking. "I have a place," Billy told him, and it wasn't exactly a lie.

"That's good."

"Yeah, just dandy." Billy made like he was going to throw the cigarette away, so Steve snatched it and inhaled quickly. It had been a while since he had smoked nicotine, so he coughed abruptly. Thankfully, Billy didn't make fun of him. Though Steve probably would've felt better if he had. Steve handed the cigarette back, and Billy did flick it away. He said, "I guess you saw me."

Steve thought about how to answer the statement so that he could hopefully widen the topic. "Yeah," he said calmly. "I saw you."

Billy's voice was tired as he said, "I'm not gay."

"Yeah?"

Billy didn't repeat it.

Steve drew his finger idly through the dirt, thought better of it. Wiping his finger off he proposed they go to the bar. "To talk, maybe." He shrugged, trying to act like he didn't care, like he was calm when he was really exploding inside.

He was relieved when Billy said, "Yeah, okay."

They got up, brushed their pants off, and headed toward Steve's car that was thankfully still in one piece. 


	8. Chapter 8

The bar had been bought in 1980 by Steve's father for one-thousand, five-hundred dollars. At the time, his mother had just begun her career and the price seemed like it would constantly strangle her with its weight. By 1985, Mrs. Harrington was well-established and making a steady income that not only paid off what was left of debt to the bar, but also afforded the family a house upgrade. A house with a wide porch, with multiple stories, with a pool in the backyard. Steve had been fourteen, and he wasn't heartbroken about leaving the old house for a better one. He even got to stay in the same school with all of the people he knew. 

When his father orginally made the spontaneous purchase, he had blamed it on a midlife crisis that left him insecure in his wife's shadow-- it was the 80s, afterall. But really, he just always liked the idea of owning a bar. He liked beer, he figured he could be good at serving it. Steve remembered the first day he got to go into the place. It was the day after all of the papers had been signed, and his father held the key to the building in his hand with a glow that Steve had never seen before, and he twisted the lock open.

The inside was a disaster. 

The wallpaper was peeling, revealing mold along the creases of the walls. The wooden floor was splintered and jagged, and Steve hadn't been allowed to actually walk inside. It was dusty, dirty, probably toxic, and Steve's dad never bought anything again without thoroughly investigating it first. 

Over the years, and a lot of elbow grease, the bar was flipped on its figurative head. There were certificates, awards, posters, even the ocassional ad placement in the local papers. His father had called the place The Cellar, and Steve joked about it being his prison. 

Billy Hargrove had grown pretty familiar with the Harrington's bar in the half-year he had inhabited the area. Walking in with Steve after getting caught sucking a guy off, however, removed any sense of comfort Billy may have gotten from the business. He sat across from Steve, who didn't open the place up for his shift until six o' clock, and they stared at their hands, folded on the table. "Wanna play pool?" Steve had asked. Billy said no. Steve was tired of poking around the questions buzzing in his mind, so he followed up with, "So, how'd you even end up here?" Billy glared at him. "Alright... let's back it up, then. How'd you end up in Indiana if you were born in California?"

Billy spat, "It was my father's idea."

Steve hadn't been expecting any mention of family, and he perked up. "Your father?" He repeated, hoping to draw the information out of him as quick as possible.

"Yeah," Billy grunted. "Mom died and he married some bitch that lives there, so he packed up shop to live with her. I was kinda surprised, actually. Before that it had just been one big game of pussy-chasing." A small chuckle rippled through Billy's chest. "Fuckin' _Indiana._ You ever been there?"

Steve told him no, he hadn't.

"It's a shit-hole, I'll tell you. I went from ocean waves to waves of cow shit."

"Huh." Steve didn't want to risk making a comment that would end the conversation, but he was still captured by Billy's words. Gingerly, he asked, "Why'd you leave?"  
Billy was biting his lower lip, fingers tracing the indents in the wooden tabletop and eyes blinking rapidly. "I just had to," he whispered so quietly that Steve almost didn't hear him. Steve got him thinking about home-- well, he never thought of it as home, but it was the place he had come from. There weren't good things to remember. Suddenly it was the previous year and Billy was driving down a darkened back road, the most recent bruise from his father decorating his face, and a fat man in a bar was offering him money to fuck. Billy had refused, scoffed at the idea. Oh, how the mighty fall.

He remembered his step-sister, and she hadn't been half-bad. He hated her for a long time; after all, she was the offspring of the woman that his father had uprooted their lives for. It was her fault that Billy got beat half of the time. Over the months, Billy began to realize that it was nobody's fault except for his father's, and the way he had treated his sister haunted him, like most things did those days. 

The two continued to sit, not talking and not even drinking, though Billy desperately wished he had been wasted in that moment. "How did you find me?" He asked after growing annoyed at the buzz of silence and the flash of memories.

Steve's knee bounced, his fingers tapped. "I... do you remember that cop, the Chief, from the hospital?" 

Billy's eyes grew darker. "Yeah, I guess."

"He got the results from the, uh, the DNA. He wouldn't tell me names flat out, but I got him to circle them in the phone book and went to one for answers."

Billy felt the blood leave his cheeks as he processed Steve's word, stomach flipping and tongue drying. "You talked with him?" Then, to clarify, "Tim?"

"No, I didn't talk with a Tim. I don't remember his first name, but it wasn't Tim." Steve told him, and Billy relaxed a little. Steve noticed. "Was Tim the man who put you in the hospital?"

Billy ran a hand over his face. "It doesn't matter."

"Yeah, it kinda does." Steve wasn't in the mood for another round of arguing with Billy.

"No, hearing it from me doesn't. They have the answers they need." 

Steve _tsked_ and looked away, trying to shift the conversation away from the rape. "I know I said you looked better, but man you look like shit."

"Wow, I'm flattered." Billy frowned.

Steve cracked a half-smile. "I mean, you don't look like you've slept. Or showered, really."

Billy tensed. "I, uh, I have a place, like I said. I just haven't been in it." He had been preoccupied with avoiding his house, and the area in general, until that night when Steve just happened to find him. 

"Why not?"

"I just..." Billy thought about how to explain himself. "I get scared about going back there. I keep thinking he'll just be sitting there, waiting. He knew where I live, he came to my apartment, he found me. I mean, the place probably doesn't belong to me anymore since I haven't paid rent in nearly three months but--"

Steve pushed himself away from the table, chair scraping on the wood as he stood. "Let's go," he told Billy. The bar was no place for talking, not with the ghosts of the past hanging around. "Take me to your house."

"Fuck that," Billy hissed, remaining in his seat. "Like I said, I probably can't even go there any more."

"Then we'll talk to the landlord," Steve insisted, and Billy would be damned if he wouldn't follow that boy to the ends of the earth. 

"Look, Harrington..." But Billy couldn't follow up with his threat. He felt tired, he always felt tired. The exhaustion hit him like a brick, and he felt his resolve crumbling away, right in front of the only person who had an opinion that mattered to Billy. His strong chin became dimpled, his lower lip curled over, his nostrils shrunk. Billy started crying.  
Steve had come to expect many things from Billy Hargrove. He had seen the boy fight, shout, intimidate, even caught him sucking dick. The one thing he would have never expected to see, or could even imagine until that moment, was Billy crying. It wasn't sobs, but maybe that would've been better than the sniffles and embarrassed cheeks he was desperately trying to hide. Behind his hands Billy uttered a small, "Fuck."

Steve took his seat again. "Billy, hey," he began, but comforting someone else had never been his strong point. 

Billy wiped at his eyes and nose, practically clawed at it, like he could beat the tears away. "Fuck off," he tried hissing, but it came out like a whimper instead. "Go back to your girlfriend, your huge fucking house, your nice family."

Steve bristled and quickly told Billy that actually, he didn't have a girlfriend any more. "And I'm not gonna leave you to go back on the streets, don't you get that?" 

"What else is there?" Billy asked, His voice was bitter, angry, sad. 

"I don't... you could get a job. Did you finish high school?"

"Barely," Billy scoffed.

"Well, there. Do something with that."

Billy had stopped sniffling, and the only evidence that he had cried at all was the red blotches on his nose and cheeks. "You think I started doing all of this just because the job market is a little tight right now? I'm in the middle of this fucking hurricane and I don't know when it's gonna stop, when I'm gonna get to reset myself." He rubbed at his left eye. "Can I get a beer or something?"

"No," Steve said. "We're talking. Sober, thoroughly."

Billy stood up then. "Whatever," he grumbled, and began to walk off. Steve jumped up and jogged to stop him, slipping between the other boy and the door, stopping him with a hand on his chest. 

"Wait," he pleaded. "Don't go back out there. Take me to your place. Or we can go back to my dorm and you can stay there, something. Just don't go back out there."

"What's it matter to you?" Billy asked, knocking Steve's hand away.

Steve replied, "Every day, I see you laying in that hospital bed. I can't forget it, Billy. Call me a fag all you want, but I care."

Billy wasn't momentarily stunned. When was the last time someone had told him they cared about him? He took a step back, cheeks burning, eyes threatening to spill again. "I'm losing work time," he forced himself to say, and shoved Steve aside, momentarily lapsing by pulling the door instead of pushing to open it. Steve called his name, then again, then reached out and grabbed Billy by the shirt-- a shirt, Steve realized, that he had let Billy borrow all those months ago. "Okay," Steve began. "Wait. How much?"

Billy tugged away, but Steve's grip held firm. They were half-in half-out of the bar, and the heat was rapidly spilling out of the building. "How much?" Billy parroted, eyes wide and eyebrows pulled together. 

"Yeah, how much?" Steve nodded. "To... to get you."

Billy stiffened. He tilted his head back slightly, looked at Steve over the bridge of his nose to keep his frown stiff instead of wobbly. Was that all Steve had wanted, to pretend that he cared to rope Billy in and pay for an easy fuck? "Twenty for a blow, fifty for a fuck," he listed easily. He watched as Steve reached into his wallet and pulled out a few crisp twenties. He had just gotten paid, but he didn't need the cash for anything as important as this. 

"How much will this get me?" He asked.

Billy had never charged using time as a measurement, so he said a random amount. "An hour."

Steve nodded. "Okay." There was a challenge in his eye. "Take me to your place."

The drive was awkward. Steve hadn't expected much else, maybe a little more fight. But Billy had simply taken the money and shut his mouth, speaking only to tell Steve when to turn. They ended up back in the neighborhood they had come from, and Steve tensed knowing they had been so close to a shelter for Billy from the streets and yet they had gone all the way to the bar instead.

The houses blurred together, apartments half-finished and townhouses collapsing in on each other. "Stop," Billy spoke suddenly, and Steve slammed on the brakes. "Not right here, idiot," Billy groaned against the whiplash of the seat belt. "That complex there." He had nodded to an apartment building, and Steve pulled into a vacant spot out front. He pulled the key from the ignition, and then the only sound was the clicking of the engine as it cooled. 

Billy moved unexpectedly, getting out and slamming the door hard enough to jostle Steve in his seat, who then scurried to get out as well. "I have to see if my landlord's in, I guess." Billy looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. He marched toward the building with an air of determination, and Steve followed with a little distance between them. 

Inside, a staircase presented itself at the end of a hallway, where doors lined either side. Billy walked all the way down the hall, and then ducked behind the stairs to where a final door lay waiting, and he knocked. Then knocked again. Then, finally, the door was yanked open.

"What?" A gruff voice exclaimed. Then a pause. Steve couldn't see the landlord from where he stood. "Oh, Billy, I knew you'd be back."

"Look, I'm just asking about my place. Is it gone?"

"You're one of the only tenants I've had that is not only on-time with pay, but early. I kept it for you, as a favor. I figured you be courteous enough to at least tell me you were going, if it was permanent."

"Thanks," Steve heard Billy say, though he didn't sound particularly enthused. He was probably hoping the man would throw him out. 

"Yeah, hey," Billy had turned away, and the man called him back. " Well, I read about you in the paper, about the man that... well, I just wanted to say I'm sorry to hear about it, that's all. Oh, I had the locks changed. You can give me your old key and I'll get you the new one." Steve hadn't known that Billy's incident had been reported, let alone published in some paper. Didn't they need permission for stuff like that?

Billy was walking back toward Steve after a few more moments. "He sounds nice," Steve commented, hoping to see Billy cheer up a little. Billy didn't say anything about it.  
Instead, he headed toward the stairs. "Long way up," he announced before beginning the ascent. And he wasn't kidding. He lived on the fifth floor, the very top floor, and Steve hadn't walked so many stairs since high school when his basketball coach would make the team run up and down the bleachers. It didn't help that Billy practically flew up the stairs and didn't even glance back.

Finally, they stopped. Billy didn't go to unlock the door, and when Steve looked he saw his hand that was holding the key was shaking. Billy's eyes were also shut. "He's not there," Steve told him. "His not going to be there."

Billy swallowed hard, audibly. Then he turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open with a terrible, protesting groan. Everything was in order. Nothing had been moved, not even the shoe box under his broken bed frame that had his three grand in it. Billy almost started sobbing right then and there, if it weren't for Steve waiting in the living room. 

"Sorry," Billy said when he came out from his inspection. "I had to check on something."

"Hope you didn't have a pet," Steve tried to joke.

"Nah," Billy shrugged. Then he remembered the money in his pocket. "So... what do you, uh, want?"

Steve cocked an eyebrow. "With what?"

"Well, you paid." Billy's hands automatically went to the buttons of the shirt, undoing them. Steve's eyes grew wider than the moon and just as white as he watched Billy before stepping forward and stopping him.

"No, I--"

Billy let his hands fall away, shirt handing off of his shoulders before Steve started to slowly button it back up. His cheeks were red, flustered. He mumbled, "I'm not gonna just... do that, fuck you. Like those men."

Billy flinched. "Then what?" He spit, ignoring the way Steve's fingers ghosted over his exposed chest. "You gonna _make love_ to me, pretty boy? News flash: that's not how this works."

"I'm not gonna do anything," Steve continued. "I'm not gonna do that to you."

"Then do you want me to do something?" Billy asked, nearly dropping to his knees. Embarrassment burned in the back of his throat. Embarrassment, and something like self-loathing.

"No," Steve insisted. "I-- Can't you just take my money and spend an hour in here? Off the street?"

Billy's eyes darkened. "No." 

"And why not?"

"Because that's not in the job description," Billy sighed.

Steve countered, "Don't you have to do what I ask? I'm asking you to take a nap or something, relax."

Billy dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the money, now wrinkled from his rough handling. He tossed the bills back toward Steve, who had finally removed himself from Billy's torso. The bills fluttered uselessly to the ground. "There," Billy grunted, and began to walk past Steve.

"Stop fighting me on this," Steve groaned, reaching for the other boy again, flinching when Billy smacked away his hand.

"I'm not fighting you on anything," Billy said. "This is the reality. They _fuck_ me. They fuck me like I'm _nothing,_ like I don't matter, like they can split me apart with their dicks. Some of them try to kiss me, try to get me off too, like that makes it alright. It's a _helluf_ a lot to put a resume, huh."

The color drained from Steve's cheeks. "I saw you in that hospital," he said. "I can't let you go back out there."

"Try and stop me." 

Billy turned his back, and Steve sprung into action. It was a relatively easy action to make, like flipping on a switch. He pretended he was dreaming, and grabbed Billy by the shirt and pulled him back, kissing him. As easy as that, only it wasn't so easy once their mouths were actually touching and it wasn't just a dream. Neither boy moved their mouths, their hands, their lungs. 

And then it exploded.

Billy walked Steve back until his back hit a wall, and Billy's thick hands pushed him hard against it. Steve felt the air rush out of him, and twisted his hands in Billy's already tangled hair. He hadn't had a dream like that, but his lips were tingling. Maybe that was Billy's facial hair scraping at him. 

Kissing Nancy had never been like that, so rough. Sure, there had been times when they were caught in the moment, passion and lust fueling their actions, but kissing Billy was something else entirely; a whole different world and Steve wasn't embarrassed to admit that he had groaned into the kiss when Billy bit his lower lip. 

Steve removed his hands from Billy's hair, let them trail to his shoulders, then sank lower. It would be a lie to say he didn't know what he was doing. He was a man, after all, he knew how things worked. He slipped his hands to Billy's belt, but then he was grasping at air. Billy had backed away so fast he crashed into the kitchen table. 

They looked at each other, panting, mouths red and eyes the size of the moon. Billy stepped toward him, feeling a little flattened from being between the wall and Billy. "Sorry, I--"

"Don't apologize," Billy said. "I just-- got scared, I guess."

Both were surprised at the honesty, and Steve walked over to where Billy stood leaning against the table. "One step at a time," he whispered, then braced himself to lean in and kiss Billy gently, so gently his chest ached. When he pulled away, hands tucked firmly in his pockets he asked, "Can I use your phone? To call my dad."

Billy sheepishly said, "I don't have one."

"Okay," Steve nodded, and it wasn't a big deal. He walked down to the payphone and talked with his father, spun the story that he was sick again and maybe you should see the doctor, Steve, his father had warned but Steve just insisted it was a passing bug. He even threw in a few coughs for safe measure.

He made his way back up the stairs, mind buzzing with his lips and knees wobbling. Would Billy still be in his apartment? Steve kept picturing the boy running out of the building and sneaking away down some back-street, but when Steve pushed the door open, Billy was still standing in the kitchen, chewing his bottom lip and staring at the floor. Steve cleared his throat to announce his presence and Billy's eyes flashed to his. "Look," Billy began. "I don't want you to be here out of pity. I can't hold you up like that."

"I don't pity you," Steve told him. "I feel sad for you, but not like that. Like, I wish I could take your pain away."

"That's gay," Billy laughed.

Steve frowned. "Billy, you were just making out with me."

"I know," and Billy started laughing harder. It grew into a roar of noise, and the boy clutched his sides like they hurt and Steve joined in, at first with small chuckles which then grew into a rapture of their own, and then they were falling together and kissing, smile pressed to smile.

There was a lot to be resolved, but this was a start.

Billy had never let any man kiss him. It felt too intimate, too taxing, and there was only so much of himself that he had left to give. But Steve wasn't paying for Billy, wasn't beating him or slapping him or ripping him apart. They kissed for a long time, and Steve didn't let himself get hung up too long on what kissing Billy meant. He knew he wasn't just gay, because his attraction to girls had been real his whole life. He was somewhere in the middle, but could that be possible? Billy, on the other hand, couldn't get past kissing Steve. Whenever the other boy touched his mouth or his face, even his shoulders or chest, everything was fine. But when Steve would move just a little lower, Billy would freeze up. He  _knew_ it was Steve,  _knew_ that Steve wasn't some man paying to fuck him, and yet his body wouldn't listen to his brain. Eventually they settled on the patchy carpet in the living room, just kissing. It then dissolved sleepily into cuddling, and then both were asleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Billy started shivering. He was never cold when he slept; one blanket was enough to keep his heat-box of a body content, and even then he would end up tossing it off at some point because he was too hot. He never shivered.

This unfamiliar cold brought him out of his sleep, and he felt an icy pressure on his chest. It was Steve's hand, and the realization made his stomach do a weird flip. "Hey," he whispered, jostling Steve. "M'cold,"

"Tired," Steve grumbled, curling tighter around Billy. 

"Let's go to bed," Billy suggested. His neck was stiff when he tried to look around. Steve was using him as a pillow, but all he had was the hard floor. Steve stirred at this notion, looking up at Billy with confused eyes. "Or, I mean, you could drive home. I wasn't trying to... I wasn't--"

Steve yawned, then pressed a small kiss on Billy's shoulder, where his head had fallen. "Calm down," he muttered. "You're the only one freaking out here." It was true. Steve wasn't upset that he liked kissing Billy. He had thought about it for a long time after all, Billy was the only one who seemed to have trouble with the fact that  _he_ liked kissing Steve. 

Steve sat up, taking his cold with him. "You're freezing," Billy told him.

"You're warm," Steve countered.

They walked together to Billy's room, and Billy saw for the first time just how tiny his mattress was. Steve motioned for Billy to lay down first, and then practically climbed on top of him, curling around and fitting perfectly in the limited space. He had practice in sharing small beds thanks to college. The heat radiating from Billy helped, and once the blanket was thrown over them it all balanced out. Steve warmed up enough to not make Billy shiver, and Billy stayed cool under the blanket. 

Neither knew what would happen in the morning. Steve knew that he wasn't going to freak out, but he was worried about Billy in the daylight. He knew there would probably be arguing, and he knew Billy would be harder, like stone. But then, he let himself fall back asleep, Billy's hand on his back a reassuring presence in the dark room. The sound of feet pounded below, and an ambulance flashed by, taking its squealing sirens with it. 

Billy had never slept better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya girl finally finished college applications, so I have a lot more time to write


	9. Chapter 9

Billy woke with a start. For a second, his vision was blurry, and he felt pinned down by someone else's weight. He nearly flipped out before coming to his senses and seeing none other than Steve Harrington laying in his bed, wrapped around his torso. Sunlight came through the window in streaks through the blinds, cutting across Steve's skin in a dark-light pattern. He was breathing peacefully, unperturbed by Billy's jerkiness. 

When Billy tried to get up, he found that their legs were tangled together, and he had to take an extra few minutes to carefully free himself from Steve's all-encompassing grip without waking him up. Billy was freaking out, maybe just a little. While Steve continued sleeping, Billy went out to his living room and paced. He lit a cigarette, let the smoke fill his lungs and his room, too wired to open a window.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to think about anything other than the fact that Steve was laying in his bed, half-naked, warm. 

Guilt had always been a big part of his thinking process, a good distraction from all of the other things he could be worried about. Billy's good old friend Guilt crept in and whispered things like  _you should've done as your father asked, you should have pampered your step-mother, youshould'veshould'veshould've, your fault, your fault, your fault._

Letting the cigarette dangle from his lips, Billy found a scrap piece of paper and a pen. He knew that whatever he wrote probably would not actually be mailed, but he wanted to write to her anyway. Sitting on a random chair, he tried writing at the kitchen table. He started the letter over multiple times, crossing out _Dear Max,_ then writing _Maxine,_ before angrily scribbling that out because he remembered that she hated to be called that.

But that was almost years ago. Max had barely been a teenager then, maybe things had changed.

He settled eventually on a short and simple:

_Hey._

_Its Billy. Sorry I was always an asshole I'm trying to be better hope all is well._

The pen rolled uselessly on the wood of the table. All in all, the letter was nothing more than a scrap notepad stolen from some hotel, a sentence of Billy's terrible handwriting put on it in an attempt to reconcile a torturous past.

Frustrated, Billy threw his cigarette in the sink and smothered it with tap water before shrugging on Steve's coat and walking outside. 

The fresh air helped cleared his senses, and he felt less angry with himself. He didn't think he would add any more to his letter, but he had decided that he was definitely going to mail it whenever he got the chance. He just wouldn't be including a return address (even if he had known what state he had been camping out in. Maybe he should ask Steve about that). 

On the horizon, the sun was slowly making its way up the sky. Gray was fading into bright blue, and Billy felt his heart thump a little harder. He wanted to go back inside.  
Marching up the stairs confidentially, determined to embrace whatever was happening between him and Steve, Billy fought hard to keep a smile off of his face. When he got the door and flung it open, he was met by the sight of Steve, still shirtless, flinging himself out. "Whoa," Billy cried, catching the spiraling boy.

Steve's eyes were wide, his chest heaving. "I thought," he started, and Billy swallowed when he heard the thickness of it in the morning.

"What--" 

Steve lunged at him, and wrapped Billy in a tight hug. Billy quickly shuffled the two of them inside and closed the door, wary of the other apartments surrounding them. "Steve, what's wrong?"

The bed had been warm when Steve started to wake up, as it hadn't been too long after Billy's departure before consciousness started poking at him, trying to pry him from the happy feeling he had in a dream that wasn't detailed, but emotional enough. Steve's hand had stretched expecting to find Billy's skin, but there was nothing but the thin sheet beneath him. That had made his eyes fly open and sit bolt upright. 

At first, he resisted the urge to call out to Billy. He was probably in the shower, or making breakfast or something like that. A voice in Steve's mind, however, was whispering that Billy was out fucking men for money despite everything that had happened the previous night. Why did these voices always whisper? Something lurched in Steve's chest, and he was terrified that it would manifest in a sob, so he sprang into action.

After double-checking all of the measly rooms in Billy's apartment, Steve headed toward the door, forgetting shoes and a shirt in the process.

So they had crashed into each other as Billy opened the door to enter and Steve pounced at it to track the other boy down, though he couldn't fathom the idea of catching him in the act again. Confusion and relief swam through Steve. He released Billy, cheeks red. His breathing was slowing down, at least. "I woke up alone," he began to explain. "And I... I was just afraid that you were back on the street. After everything."

Billy felt the foreign experience of his heart sinking. He hadn't thought about hooking, he had just wanted fresh air. But he would have gone to the streets eventually, and he couldn't lie and pretend that he was better than that. "I was getting air," he told Steve.

"Yeah," Steve nodded. He ran a hand through his bed-hair, making it worse. He let out a burst of air. "I'm sorry. I promise that wasn't my first reaction. I looked for you, and only freaked out when I couldn't find you in this place. And there's not a lot of hiding spots, you know?"

"Yeah." Billy wasn't angry that Steve had gotten worried, he was just confused. Nobody had worried about his disappearances before. The short interlude brought with it awkwardness, of course. Steve still felt the same as he did the night before, if not stronger. Billy was worried sick. He had a creeping feeling in his gut that he was going to ruin Steve somehow, and not in the fun way. "I-- I don't want to go on the streets again," he began. "But I don't know what else to do."

"You could get a real job," Steve suggested. "I could help you look. You graduated high school, right?" Steve didn't even know that about Billy.

There was no teasing to Steve's voice, Billy was not offended by the question. "Yeah, barely."

"Okay, we'll start there." Steve nodded, excited to help Billy. "We can look locally, something small, something to get you experience and a real income and--"

"Steve," Billy interrupted, voice nothing more than a whisper. He wasn't big on letting hope rise in his mind. But Steve barreled on, eyes shining a little. "Maybe at the bar, or something," he shrugged. "We could look, okay? Just look, I-- please."

He looked at Billy, bit his tongue to hold everything in, and waited. Eventually Billy spoke again. "I don't know how to move past this." 

Even though they were in Billy's house where there were only three windows; one in the kitchen over the sink, one in Billy's room, and a big one that rested in the living room, everything seemed brighter despite this lack of proper lighting. Steve could see the creases on Billy's forehead. He could see the tangles of hair matted behind his head, knowing that otherwise it was probably a carefully styled mullet that was now just getting out of hand. He could see the defeat in Billy's eyes. "Let me help you," he said, and shifted to grab Billy's hand. "You're not alone. I-- I don't know how you got here, but I'll be damned if I let you disappear to somewhere else." 

Then Steve kissed him, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Billy let his eyes flutter shut and felt a pull in his chest like he needed to be closer to Steve even though they had become pressed together, against Billy's door. 

Breaking away, Steve smiled. "M'hungry," he announced. "Got anything good to eat?"

Billy shook his head. "Not unless you like moldy bread and two-week old takeout."

"Hm," Steve pretended to consider. "Maybe another morning, I'm in the mood for something else."

"What?"

Steve raised a hand, let it run through a chunk of Billy's hair, smoothing it. Billy shivered. "Let's go out."

Billy raised his eyebrow. "You asking me on a date, Harrington?"

Steve smirked, though there was a faint outline of red on his cheeks that did not go unnoticed by Billy.. "Do you want it to be a date?"

_Yes,_ Billy wanted to say. _Yesyesyesyesyes._ "Depends on where you're taking me, Harrington."

"I want to shower first." Steve was still pressed against Billy, and maybe it was the newness of everything, how unfamiliar Billy's body felt yet so fitting, that Steve couldn't just pry himself away.

"Then go shower," Billy said, but he was smirking too.

Suddenly, a serious cloud passed over Steve's face. "Can we talk more about everything?" 

Billy then wanted to shut himself up and throw Steve out. But it had been months, didn't Steve deserve to know _some_ things about Billy? "I..." Billy searched for the right way to explain himself. "Go shower, I'm hungry too."

Steve looked dejected, but he nodded, pressed a kiss to Billy's cheek, and went to Billy's bathroom.

With one great shuddering sigh, Billy slid himself down the door to rest on the tiled floor, shirt raising from the friction and exposing his bare skin to the cool wood. He let his head fall into his hands and could only think _I let one boy kiss me, and I lose control of everything._

But he couldn't be mad at Steve. He cared, plain and simple. Probably Billy just couldn't wrap his brain around the idea of someone caring. His palms were sweating, and he wanted so desperately to bring the image in his mind to life, the one where he and Steve are happy for years to come, but all he could think about was his father's fists breaking into his bones and the image makes him want to cry.

Billy manages to get off of the floor before Steve gets out of the shower. He's faintly reminded of the one and only night he had spent at Steve's place, how he had let Billy borrow clothes. He knew that the respectable thing to do would be to return the gesture, so, with shaking hands, he knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yeah?" Steve called, and his voice sounded more awake.

"I just," Billy started, feeling like a fool. "I wanted to know if you wanted to borrow a shirt or anything."

Steve didn't reply for a moment, a moment in which Billy felt his heart beat ten-thousand times, but really Steve had just gotten soap in his mouth and couldn't answer straight away. "If you got anything, sure," was his eventual, soapy answer.

So Billy found the cleanest shirt he owned, which only had one stain on it (and it wasn't a come stain, thank God) and went into the bathroom to put it on the sink. He was very aware of the difference between his bathroom and the bathroom he had explored at Steve's house. 

Behind the tempered glass, Billy could see the blurred silhouette of Steve, but nothing was clear and he was too cowardly to be so brazen, afraid of scaring Steve. 

As far as Billy knew, Steve had never so much as looked at another guy, let alone make-out with one all night. He feared that as soon as they sat down to eat wherever they ended up, Steve would come out of this daze and bolt, stuttering out some macho-excuse or another, leaving Billy broken.

_So end it,_ the mean voice said.

"Fuck off," Billy muttered.

"Hm?" Steve peeked out from behind the sliding door, wet hair hanging in his eyes.

Billy said, "Nothing," and made his escape. He ended up going to his room and trying to make himself look presentable for the first time in years.

He remembered high school, how he would wear the tightest jeans and the lowest-cut shirts, how he would spray his hair stiff to keep it in place, and then Billy looked in his small mirror. He saw the ghost of what he was; a pretender, an impostor. His shirt hung off of his frame in a baggy way that shirts never had before. He was still fit, but he just seemed... shrunken. His eyes were dull even when he was sober, a realization that struck him more than any other change.

He got to work on combing out his hair, the long strands in the back having become matted and nearly impossible to separate. In the end, his hair was a lot shorter, definitely more even than it had been. A lot of dead hair had been tangling over time. The hour of mullets was passing, he supposed. He'd ride it out for as long as possible, though. As he was ripping his way through one last clump of hair, Steve found him. His hair was wet but pushed back, though it still fell in his face if he moved too fast one way or looked down. "What's this?" He asked with a smile.

He came over to Billy, let his fingers run through the smoothed hair. Billy knew he could potentially laugh, lean in and kiss Steve, but the Voice held him in place and made him wait for Steve to lean to him. Just in case. You don't want to push it.

Steve parted with one final tug on the ends of Billy's hair, smirking. "So, breakfast."

"Y--yeah," Billy nodded.

Then they were walking to the door. Steve took the lead, insisting on a small diner that he swore was the best place for ass-crack of dawn pancakes. The exit grew nearer and nearer, and the whole time Billy's heart hammered away. _Here it comes,_ he thought. _The bubble will burst. We're gonna walk out the door and Steve is gonna make a run for it--_

But they walked down the stairs and made it to Steve's car in a silence that was not stressful. 

Having no idea where they were going, or how long the drive would take, Billy immediately began to heat up with curiosity. Five minutes later he burst and asked, "How are you so calm, Harrington?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, flicking on his blinker to make a left turn even though there were no other cars on the road just then.

Billy said, "I mean, about everything. Kissing me. Being-- I don't know."

"A couple'a fags?" Steve supplied, a teasing chime to his tone.

"I--" Billy was floored for a second.

"You loved to call me that before," Steve pointed out. He let himself laugh at some personal joke that Billy wasn't clued in on. "I guess I don't feel any different, so why should I freak out?" He then elaborated, persisting pass tension. "I know how I felt with Nancy. I know that none of that was fake. I know that before that, with other girls, none of that was fake either. So I use that."

"Huh?"

"With you," Steve said. "I know it's not fake with you. I'm not grossed out by kissing you or anything like that. It's the same as being with a girl, only--"

"I don't have the same fuckin' parts as a girl," Billy stated darkly. 

"Hey," Steve said. "That's not what I meant. I-- I don't know how to answer your question correctly. I guess, I don't freak out because there's nothing to freak out about."

Billy thought about how wrong Steve was in saying that, how there were plenty of father's with fists ready to go at the mere suggestion that his son was touching another boy. He thought about his own father, catching him jerking it to some dumb men's underwear ad when he was just fifteen because it was all he had (his friends had gossiped about their father's Playboys and Billy couldn't figure out why he didn't get excited at the half-exposed women sprawled on the pages for him) and having the sense knocked out of him, leaving Billy bedridden for two days. 

There were just some things that needed to be freaked out about.

But, Steve was pulling into a parking lot. "Okay," Billy began firmly. "I know you're not freaking out, that's fine, but there are rules."

"What?"

"Like, I'm _not_ fucking Nancy or whoever, I don't have a vagina, you can't hold my hand in public or kiss me in public or do anything that we just did ten minutes ago at my place."

"I'm not an idiot, Billy." Steve put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "One step at a time, right?"

Billy relented. "Right."

The diner was actually decent looking, and the food lived up to Steve's appraisal. They wolfed down pancakes and coffee and toast and bacon and eggs like they hadn't eaten in days. They sat in a booth, one on either side and did their best to appear as two friends would. As the meal began to slow down, Billy realized that the bill would come next.  
The lump of food in his mouth became flavorless, and he swallowed it dry. He could only watch as Steve easily whipped out a twenty and then left the change for the tip. 

He couldn't kiss Steve first, he couldn't stop being afraid, and he would probably never be able to pay for a meal like the one they just ate. It wasn't just a feeling of inadequacy that took root in his heart, but one of uselessness. "It was great," Billy told Steve anyway. They stood by Steve's car, passing a cigarette back and forth, the closest to kissing they could get just then.

"Do you have to go to the bar tonight?" Billy asked. 

Steve hummed. "Well, I was thinking of playing off my illness for another night."

Billy frowned. "Don't do stuff like that for me," he insisted. "I don't want to separate you from your life."

"Who says it's for you?" Steve teased. "Maybe I just hate that bar with all of my guts."

"That's the biggest lie you've ever told," Billy chuckled. In the six months he had been visiting Steve's bar, he could easily tell that working it had been one of Steve's specialties. 

"Maybe..." Steve took a drag from the cigarette. He glanced at his watch. "I do have a, um, a class. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from one-forty-five to three-thirty. A few other ones too, but those are mostly scattered around." Then he laughed nervously. "Summer can't come fast enough."

Billy nodded, took what was left of the cigarette. "Okay. I can walk home, no worries." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Steve said. "I'll drop you off before I go to campus."  

Billy insisted it was fine, argued until the topic was exhausted and Steve relented. "Fine," Steve huffed. "Just... be careful."

They parted ways at Steve's car, still not daring to push any boundaries. All that was exchanged between them was a smile, and then Billy turned away and started heading home. There was nothing more to think about. Steve liked him, put up with his bullshit. He knew the dirtiest, scariest parts of Billy and still kissed him, eagerly at that. It was enough to make Billy crave change. 

The walk back to his apartment took half an hour because of how slow Billy went, like he was on a stroll. He ambled along, hands stuffed in his pockets and mind wandering away. He passed the alleys he frequented, hoped none of the men who had been regulars would see him, and forced himself into the apartment complex without Steve, without any armor to hide behind. 

There were changes to be made. 

Billy grabbed the shitty excuse for a letter off of the kitchen table, folded it neatly, dipped into a microscopic portion of his savings, and went out to buy stamps.

 

\------

 

Maxine Hargrove was seventeen years old. She had long red hair and a fierce smile to match it. Around the age of eight, she began demanding that people call her _Max_ because Maxine was a pussy-ass name. Where Max had learned such colorful language, her mother of course could not say. When she had been no older than thirteen, her step-brother had run away. For the most part, her life had continued on. She knew somethings then, some inclinations, but the truth was slowly revealed over the years. Her step-father, the man her mother had married, beat up Billy a lot. There was no friendly father-son roughhousing, it was all punishment. He didn't beat her up, not in the same way he did to Billy. But, after the younger boy had fled, his father grew harsher. Less human, if that was even possible in the first place.

He was softer on Max because he was terrified of her mother leaving him and taking her paychecks with her. Max lived in the safety of her mother, and would continue to do so until she was able to run away herself, only it would probably be a brisk jog down the road to some community college. She hadn't thought much of Billy in the last couple of years. At first, she had been relieved that he was gone. He wouldn't be around to bug her anymore, but mostly, she was glad she wouldn't have to hear the quiet sobs escaping from him late into the night through the thin walls of their neighboring rooms. 

On a day where the sun could not poke its way through the thick, heavy clouds, Billy's father grumbled his drunken way to the door and shuffled through the daily mail. Max watched from the top of the stairs, waiting for him to pass out so she could sneak out of the house to go hang out with some of the kids she had made friends with, thanks to her skateboarding skills. He read each envelope carefully, squinting his eyes and bringing them almost in contact with the tip of his nose, before grunting again and moving to the next. 

Then he looked at one for a particularly longer time than the others. He coughed and then shouted, "Maaaax," in his croaky old man voice.

Knowing better than to keep him waiting, Max bounded down the stairs. "Letter," he shrugged, tossing it her way. It fluttered out of her grasp and to the floor, and she scrambled to pick it up and leave the man's scrutinizing gaze.

In the safety of the kitchen, where she could still easily listen for the sound of the man hitting the floor and passing out, Max tore open the letter. There was no return address, and she figured it was nothing, but the name signed at the bottom caught her eye due to the way the paper had been folded.

_Billy._

She read the small sentence five times before stuffing the paper into the pocket of her jeans.

Billy was alive. Billy  _contacted_ her. Billy  _apologized_. 

For the first time in her life, Max missed her older brother.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is shorter because i actually am terrible but i wanted to get something up to keep the story going. It'll be better later, I promise <3

Steve had fallen just a little behind in school. Okay, so maybe he missed a few too many classes and was way in over his head, but he had a hard time leaving Billy. It was new, exciting, tantalizing yet comforting, and college easily became the furthest thing from Steve's mind. "What's going on with you?" His father asked, and it had been a long time since Steve had seen such genuine disappointment in the man's eyes. "Steve, what are we paying for here?"

So Steve hesitantly approached Billy about needing to spend more time focusing on school. "The semester's almost done," he explained. "Then I have all summer until I have to go back."

Billy had agreed that Steve needed to work own his own things for a while. The more he wrote to Max, the more he felt like he was wasting Steve's time. The soppier they got, the more frustrated Billy became. He once angrily scratched out _I'm in love with him i think max_ because it was too much of a risk to even have written on a piece of paper whether he decided to send it or not. He still struggled with the idea of Steve Harrington; King Steve, college-bound super-star, dating him.

And, it was weird to say he was dating _him._ Billy didn't feel weird kissing Steve, he had long since accepted that. But he kept worrying that at any moment, his father would flash around the corners, hatred in his eyes as he catches Billy and Steve making-out. There was also the pesky Voice to deal with, that constantly whispered at him to _runrunrun._ But he couldn't do that to Steve.

_What makes you think he wants you around, anyway?_ The voice had hissed.

So Steve had finished out the semester normally, pulling his grades up to passing and beyond, his father finally quitting it with the nagging. He was excited, summer stretched ahead of him as if he were in grade-school again, eager to shove his notebooks in the nearest trashcan and bolt. He stood before his mirror, dorm room packed neatly away for the season, swiping at a particular strand of hair that just wouldn't stay in place. Huffing, he reached for his trusty can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray, only to be interrupted during his ritualistic styling by a pounding on his door.

He set the can down, turned the label out of sight, went to the door. Upon opening it, he was greeted by the face of none other than Jonathan Byers.

Steve knew little about the Byers family outside of what he had picked up from Mike about the youngest, Will. He knew that Jonathan's younger brother got bullied a lot, and he knew that Jonathan hadn't exactly been navigating the popular crowd in high school either.

But, there he stood, the boy that had stolen Steve's girlfriend, hands nervously stuffed into his pockets, eyes barely maintaining contact with Steve's. Steve tried to be angry, but lacked the energy to be really enthusiastic about it. "What'd'ya want, Byers?"

Jonathan's voice was quiet, Steve had to lean in a little to catch all of the words that stumbled from his mouth, but it was steady. "I wanted to talk with you, and you weren't at your house."

"Talk to me about what?" Steve asked, trying to figure out what the deal with Nancy was. First she sent her younger brother and his pack of misfits to converse with Steve about the tragedies of romance, and now she put Jonathan himself up to the task? "This about Nancy?"

"Well, she wanted me to talk with you. So, yeah."

Now Steve did feel a little angry. Straightening up he said, "Well, there's nothing really to talk about. She left me."

"Yeah, but--"

"Look, can't we all just go our merry ways?" Steve asked, moving to close the door slightly. "She has you now, and I have-- I have someone, too."

"Oh?" Jonathan perked up at the news. "I didn't... she hadn't heard--"

"Yeah, 'cause I didn't tell her." Steve flicked the bothersome strand of hair out of his eyes. "Congratulations, we talked."

Steve went to slam the door shut, but Jonathan's hand flew out to stop it. "Steve," he began. "Nancy misses you. She tells me that she wants to be able to talk with you and shit like that. Can't you just call her? Maybe we could all go on one big group-date or something."

Steve nearly lost his head laughing at the very idea of Billy agreeing to something like that. "No way, Romeo," he moved to shut the door again.

"Just think about it," Jonathan insisted.

Steve shrugged the other boy away. "Whatever," he huffed, finally slamming the lock home. He leaned his forehead against the door, listening to the Byers boy's heavy steps thump away. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to picture him and Billy out on a date so publicly-- at least public to two other people. One of which being Steve's ex-girlfriend. Fuck.

He sighed, and gathered the small box of belongings he had claimed from the dorm before swiping up his keys and exiting. "'Till next year," he muttered, kicking the door shut with the heel of his foot.

As he drove, Steve could imagine perfectly the glow of the group-date. He could see himself and Nancy becoming friendly again, him laughing at the dumb jokes that Jonathan might make, Billy turning red as Steve grabs for his hand under the table and--

"No fucking way," Billy snapped.

It was approaching dinner time. The two boys laid in Billy's bed, stomachs growling lightly but not distracting from the topic at hand. "Bill--"

"No," Billy repeated. "Steve, I can't just _do_ that."

"Nancy and Jonathan aren't like a lot of people, they're nice and--"

"Yeah, I'm sure the girl that cheated on you is going to be so understanding about this." Billy set his jaw, firm, even though he knew that it had been a low blow. He let out a breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered. _I'm trying to be better._

"I see how this sounds to you," Steve started again, gently. "But humor me. We only have to tell them, and I can promise on my life that they won't tell anybody else against us."

Billy frowned. "Why do you want to do this so badly? I'd be pissed..." he tried to reason, but the jealousy slipped too easily into his voice.

"It's not like that," Steve hurried to assure the other boy. "Nancy and I... we were together for four years, Billy. Even if there's no romance there, we're a huge part of each other's lives. I mean, even if I don't make friendly with her again, I'd hate to lose touch with her punk brother and his shit friends."

Billy cocked an eyebrow and teased, "Steve Harrington the Babysitter?"

"They're older now, fuck off," Steve playfully pushed billy's shoulder before letting his head fall against it. "I'm serious, Bill," he resumed. "I don't love Nancy like that anymore. But a part of me is always going to love her, in some way. Does this make sense?"

"Not really," Billy shrugged. He tried to imagine himself forgiving his father as easily as Steve was prepared to do with his ex, but his stomach churned at the thought. "She _cheated_ on you," Billy emphasized. He may have been a lot of things; a hooker, a slut, an asshole, but Billy Hargrove could not imagine cheating on Steve Harrington.

"One date," Steve persisted. "If it all goes South, that's the last we'll hear from them."

Billy wanted to say no, wanted to argue with Steve and let the anger thrumming just under the surface lash out. He breathed in, then out. _Trying to be better._ "Okay," he relented. "When?"

Steve kissed him hard, so hard that his teeth mashed Billy's lower lip and stung a little. "I guess I'll have to call Nancy and talk with her," he said, lifting his head away. His eyes shone with excitement, and a heavy feeling set in Billy's throat. Sure, Steve had promised that he and Nancy were done in That Way, but what if they arrived to the date and Nancy and Steve just fell into each other once more?

That was just the Voice talking, Billy tried to convince himself. It was a lie. The Voice hadn't whispered a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that all of your comments make me cry tears of pure happiness I mean gotdamn you guys thank you so much I'm sorry for this little filler omg


	11. Chapter 11

Two-hundred and fourteen dollars. No change. Ten months of hooking had brought him close to four grand, and in just a month of trying to change, that small amount was all he was left with. The month's rent would take him down to only a hundred couple, and he didn't really know what he would do from there. He considered talking to his landlord to talk about lowering the already dirt-cheap rent, but he couldn't swallow his pride. Staring at the battered shoebox which hosted the money, Billy chewed on the inside of his cheek. Tangy blood coated his tongue. 

His bedroom door was cracked open, and he heard the soft shuffling of Steve's feet approaching, so he quickly scooped up a few twenties and threw the box back under his bed, stuffing the bills in his pocket right before he feels Steve wrapping arms around his waist. His lips gently press on Billy's neck.

It had been a few days since Steve had suggested the idea of a group date with his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend, and Billy hadn't slept much since. He stayed at Billy's apartment those days, leaving only to cover a shift for his father at the bar, but crawling back into the bed in the early hours of the morning. "Hey," Steve whispered softly, breath ghosting on Billy's exposed skin. 

_You have a shoe box of nothing under your bed and Steve probably has millions,_ the Voice irrationally stated. Billy spun in Steve's arms and pressed a hard kiss to Steve's mouth, surprising them both as Billy had never been the first to initiate anything. The kiss was chaste, nervous. "What's wrong?" Steve asked, quickly pulling away from the awkwardness. 

Billy shook his head. "Nothing," he insisted. _I'm going to burn you to the ground, eventually._

Steve looked worried, but continued on. "I talked with Nancy yesterday. She said she's still on for tonight if that works for you."

"Okay."

But Steve hesitated. "Billy... if it really bothers you so much, we don't have to go."

"What?" Billy blinked. "I'm not bothered by it. She has a new guy, and you have me. I think it's safe to say you upgraded." He threw in a playful wink, but his voice lacked a convincing teasing tone. Steve raised a hand and gently cupped Billy's cheek. The two boys were nearly the same height, separated by only an inch, so their mouths and foreheads and hands and bodies met perfectly together. Billy was scared that Steve would say more about Nancy, so he quickly blurted out, "I've been looking for a job." It wasn't a complete lie.

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? How's that going?"

There were some nights when Steve laid awake long after Billy had fallen asleep and just look at him. Steve had always assumed that whenever anybody slept, all of the emotions left their face and they looked peaceful, resting. But Billy had a sadness that haunted his features well into the night, and Steve could only shudder next to the boy as he remembered how beat up he had looked in the hospital bed all those months ago. 

Billy said, "It's going."

"We'll be okay, Billy." Steve offered him a reassuring smile, and Billy felt like weeping.

Instead, he cleared his throat and announced, "Well, pretty boy, shouldn't we get ready for this date?" 

The word date tasted exciting on Billy's tongue, and Steve's eyes sparkled. "I was gonna shower," he began. "Wanna join me?" Billy paused, thought about the long white scars that protruded on his upper thighs. Steve frowned, backpedaling. "I was joking, you don't have--"

"Let's go." Billy held his head confidentially, watching Steve's eyes widen and mouth drop open. He kissed it shut. 

Under the warm spray of the water, Billy did not flinch when Steve's hands wandered lower on his body. At first, Billy could only be amused by Steve's analytical take of his naked body. He was not ashamed, he knew that it looked good, and didn't think it was a big deal, not if he would eventually work up to having sex with the other boy. When Steve had dropped his pants, however, Billy had to like his dry lips and close his eyes a few times to clear the ringing in his head.

There was nothing explicit that happened in the shower. They kissed; Billy let Steve wash his hair, fingers massaging his scalp and rubbing his neck and shoulders. At one point his curious hands found the scars and Billy let himself cry a little at the sadness that decorated Steve's face, telling himself that Steve wouldn't notice the tears under all of the water. Part of him knew that Steve could freak out at any moment, he was constantly afraid of that. The Voice was, at least. 

When they were all cleaned, neither one made the first move to get out of the shower. There was no avoiding the fact that Billy had become hard under Steve's relaxing touch, but he couldn't gather to courage to check Steve out and see if he was affected in the same way. Instead, Steve looked down Billy's body with a wide-eyed amusement, head tilted slightly, and then Billy noticed that he was not alone in his excitement. "Billy," Steve croaked. "I--"

Billy slammed into Steve, pushing him against the ceramic of the shower wall. Steve squeaked a noise of surprise, but quickly wrapped his arms tightly around Billy's neck to hold him in place. Billy worked on sucking ferociously at Steve's neck, thinking _mineminemine,_ and Steve whimpered beneath him. "Can I," Billy panted. "Can I suck you off?"

Steve made a sort of choking noise, and hurried to nod his head. Billy kissed him a few more times, started his slow journey down the flat expanse of Steve's torso, settling on his knees on the hard bathtub floor. There was just enough room for their bodies to press up against each other, and Billy wasted no time. Steve twitched as Billy teased him, sucking on hipbones and upper thighs before licking slowly up and down the shaft of his penis. "Billy," Steve moaned, voice a breathy whisper of lust and love. "Fuck, baby," Steve threw his head back when Billy first wrapped his mouth around his dick and began sucking, tongue swirling and eyes closed, focused on the task at hand.

Steve did not feel embarrassed at how fast he came. All it took was Billy taking him all the way to the base, nose brushing against his pubic hair and throat tight on his dick, humming softly. Steve forced himself to watch Billy as he came, taking in the view of the other man swallowing him down. Billy did not spit out Steve's come, not like Steve had seen him do in the alley all just a month ago. Instead he took it all, throat working and mouth not leaving until Steve exclaimed a little from feeling oversensitive. 

The shower had begun to run cold, but Billy did not get up from his position on his knees while Steve caught his breath. He let the water drum into his back while he kissed around Steve, but then Steve's hand was reaching, searching for purchase on Billy and tugging him up, crashing their lips together. "I've never--" Steve began, reaching for Billy's dick, but the water was no longer warm and Billy no longer relaxed. He turned away from Steve's grip, ignoring the dull ache that spread in his lower stomach from lack of touch. He shut the water off and went to find a clean towel for Steve to use. 

By the time he got back, his dick had softened and Steve was brushing his teeth. Since when had he brought a toothbrush with him to Billy's place? Billy ignored the way the revelation made his heart jump as he handed the towel over. "Billy," Steve started, rubbing the towel through his thick locks of hair. "You didn't have to do that. In the shower, I mean. If you didn't want to."

"I wanted to," Billy told him, moving to brush his own teeth as well. "Or else I wouldn't've."

"Okay," Steve nodded, spitting into the sink. "It's just, I don't want you to feel pressured into doing things with me because of..." Steve trailed of, his hand in the air, gesturing for some word that could not be drawn from the tip of his tongue.

Billy set his toothbrush down. He had never been good with words, but felt emboldened as he said, "Look, I'm sorry that I freeze up sometimes when you... whenever things get hot. I know it's _you,_ not some creep, but it's like my body doesn't listen to my heart or my brain. I want you, Steve. I want you so bad that it burns me up inside, you know? What happened just now wasn't me trying to placate you. I sucked your dick because I wanted to. I wanted to make you feel good. I wanted you." He finished his little monologue and began brushing his teeth before awkward silence could take over.

Steve continued the conversation with, "You know I've never been with another boy, but I wanted you, too, back there." 

Billy smiled, cupped water into his mouth from the faucet to wash it out and said, "One step at a time." 

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Steve and Billy never went to the small diner outside of breakfast hours. Technically, the business did serve breakfast twenty-four hours a day, but the couple never appeared outside of traditional bacon and eggs and coffee time. Strolling in at half-past five felt like entering a different world. Billy took a step away from Steve, reflexively. 

There were a few minutes where Steve simply stood, scanning the scene, searching. Billy couldn't help, he had never seen either of the people they were meeting before. Then, to his left he heard a high pitched voice call out, "Steve!"

Sitting in a both was a boy and girl, both with brown hair and sunken eyes. The girl was petite and absolutely radiant with beauty, and Billy felt a strange stab of some emotion in his chest. Steve started over to the with an air of confidence, though Billy knew that he was actually terrified of how the meeting may turn out. Billy followed, unable to do anything else. The forty dollars in his pocket felt hot, and he was determined to pay for Steve's meal that night for the first time. 

Billy heard Steve say, "Hey, Nance." The two hugged each other and Billy did tense a little, but the hug was fleeting and no hands lingered. Steve turned to Billy and said, "Billy, this is Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers." He nodded to the other boy that had remained sitting, watching the interaction with the same cautious eyes as Billy.

"Nice to meet you," Billy muttered, not honestly pleased with meeting the girl that had cheated on Steve, or the boy she had cheated with. 

She sat back down next to the other boy, Jonathan, and Steve slid into the bench opposite them, gesturing for Billy to sit next to him. They hadn't sat next to each other at the diner before. It was always across from each other, only part of their shoes occasionally brushing but revealing nothing. 

Billy half-listened as Steve and Nancy caught up with each other about the past few months. They talked about finals, about the upcoming year, about things that Billy knew he'd never experience himself. He sat, tearing at the napkin in front of him, muttering his order to a waitress that had never served them before but saying nothing else. Finally, Jonathan spoke up. "So, Steve," he prompted. "You're like... gay?"

Billy flinched, resisted the urge to shush the other boy. Steve cackled, and Billy couldn't tell what that meant. Finally Steve calmed down enough to explain, "Well, not exactly. I know I liked girls, and I know I like Billy. I'm sort of... caught in the middle, I guess."

"Huh," Jonathan nodded, and that was the end of it. A lot easier than Billy would have ever expected. Under the table, Steve squeezed Billy's hand quickly, reassuring. Jonathan casually threw an arm around Nancy's shoulder, and Billy waited for Steve to react but then he saw that there was really nothing between the ex-couple. All of the fear Billy had harbored about secret lust and rekindling old flames disappeared, then. Gingerly, he grabbed Steve's hand under the table and held it for longer than just a second. 

The conversation gradually died down as the food was served to them, and the group of young adults began eating ravenously. Eating had been hard all day, nerves bundling them up so tight that their throats would not allow the passage of food into their stomachs, so the shitty diner food tasted like a gourmet meal to the growling stomachs at the table. 

Billy was halfway through his plate when he heard the bell on the entrance jingle and glanced toward the noise. He nearly choked on his bite of burger, dropping the patty in the process. Entering the diner was none other than Tim himself, stomach hanging with a beer gut and cigarette dangling from chapped lips. He was balding. 

Billy left the table without saying anything and nearly sprinted to bathroom, where he promptly threw up all of the food he had been eating. He heard the bathroom door open with a squeak and Steve's gentle voice asking, "Billy? Are you alright?" Only to be answered by another burst of retching on Billy's part. 

His mind felt like static, and his heart felt still in his chest. Billy wanted to slump over the toilet and vomit until he coughed up his own heart, but instead made his shaky way to his feet and flushed. Coming out of the stall, Steve was watching him with a pale face as Billy went to wash his hands.

"Must've been the food," he shrugged. 

Steve, smart enough to know that food poisoning did not typically attack mid-meal, pressed for the truth. "What happened?" He tried to think of something Jonathan might have said, but the date had been going perfectly fine up to that point.

"The food," Billy shrugged again, though he had then been scrubbing at his hands with the soap for an extravagant amount of time and Steve wanted to walk over and grab his wrists and force him to stop, to talk, to be honest. Eventually, Billy shut the water off and dried his hands with paper towels, but he could not get his feet to leave the bathroom. Steve placed a hand on his shoulder and Billy jumped. "I just gotta pay and go-- we can go, right?"

"Sure, I mean," Steve hurried to follow Billy. "If you're not feeling well."

Billy took out the money from his pocket and marched his way to the counter to pay for the bill, telling the waitress that they would not be ordering anything more to eat. He ended up getting twenty dollars and seventy-four cents back in change, and hid that money away. As he turned, he felt a body slide up next to his, invading his personal space. "Well, if it isn't the little _shit_ that got me jail time." Billy could not look at Tim. His voice was so low in the busy diner that nobody else took notice, except for Steve. Tim's breath was hot, vile, sickening. "I'll make sure to pay another visit to your place, pal." 

He walked toward the exit and stood outside, smoking. 

"Billy," Steve said next to him. Behind him, Jonathan and Nancy were watching, warily. Johnathan turned to pay their share of the meal and Nancy said, "I'm sorry you're not feeling well."

Billy shrugged. 

Jonathan said, "It was nice meeting you, dude. Keep Harrington in line."

They left with a few more parting words, but Billy could not join in on their attempted humor. Tim was still there, smoking.

"Is that one of them?" Steve asked, following Billy's eyes. His eyes then darkened. "Is that  _him_ , Billy? The shit that put you in the fucking hospital?"

"Huh? No," Billy tried to say, but Steve was already marching toward the exit. "Steve," Billy called in a harsh semi-whisper. He followed Steve out, even though it meant getting closer to Tim. 

By the time he caught up with Steve, he was yelling at Tim. "What's your fucking problem?"

"Excuse me?" Tim asked, ashing his cigarette dismissively. 

"You think you can just _rape_ and nearly _murder_ and get away with it?" Steve's cheeks were red, fists tight. 

Realization dawned on Tim's face. He looked behind Steve, directly at Billy."Oh, I got my couple'a months in the slammer, but nobody cares about a dirty, poor _slut_ that was dumb enough to think he was worth two-grand--"

Steve launched toward Tim before Billy could even think to react. A fist connected solidly with Tim's face, launching the cigarette out of his mouth and to the pavement. Tim stumbled back and clutched at where Steve had hit him, lip torn. "Fuck--" He sprang at Steve, wrestling the other boy to the ground. "Your little boyfriend is a _whore,"_ Tim spit. "Worthless, faggot, piece of shit--"

Steve screamed with the effort of pushing Tim away and swinging over him to throw punches that not only broke Tim's nose, but bruised his own knuckles. Tim managed a good punch to the nose and Billy faintly said, "Stop it," but he felt far away.

The bell to the diner door chimed. "Hey!" A waitress shouted.

Steve was still punching at Tim, though the man was nearly unconscious on the ground, head whipping back and forth from the force of Steve's hits. "Steve, please," Billy said a little louder. Finally, he got his feet to work and he pulled Steve back, Tim moaning on the ground.

"I'll kill him," Steve panted. "I'll fucking _kill_ him."

A crowd had formed in the window of the diner and across the street. Billy held him tightly. 

"If you don't go, I will call the police," the waitress said. "But my niece is one, too, and I know how it can be. I'm letting you go. He comes in all the time, drunk. I'll just tell him that he got in a fight with someone, trust me, nobody here likes him enough to tell him the truth."

"Your niece is one what?" Billy demanded, not really hearing the other words.

The waitress' cheeks flushed and she stammered out, "A-- a, well, you know, a _queer."_

Billy felt his chest cave in on itself. Everything was falling apart, nothing could be salvaged. The fucking waitress from the shitty small-town diner with probably no more than a high school GED had found out that Steve and Billy were not just good pals. Had they always been so obvious?  Steve was holding his nose in pain and Tim groaned on the ground. Billy dropped his head in shame, and turned on his heels to go, walking past Steve's car, hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Hey!" He heard Steve call, but he did not stop, and eventually heard pounding feet on the pavement as Steve ran to catch up with him. "Billy, where are you going?"

Billy whirled to him. "I'm packing my bags, and I'm fucking leaving."

Steve's hand dropped from his nose and the blood resumed its dripping toward his mouth. "What?"

"I've tried being better," Billy said, words bitter. "But the universe doesn't _fucking_ want that. I have to leave, I can't keep hurting you like this."

"Billy, you didn't hurt me," Steve tried to tell him. 

Billy waved a hand. "It's all the same." He resumed walking. He paused, then pulled out the cash from his pocket, handing it toward Steve. "This is for dinner."

Steve didn't grab the money, and anger sparked under Billy's skin. He shoved the bills into the front pocket of Steve's button-up shirt, crumpling them but not caring. "Billy!" Steve called after him, but Billy was set in his march back to his apartment, his few belongings, his getaway car. Steve did not chase after him, and Billy was torn between being relieved and feeling broken.

Of course, by the time Billy made it back to his home on foot, Steve's car was already parked there. He cursed under his breath, forgetting that he had given Steve the spare key. For a moment, he considered hopping in his car and going without stopping in the building, but the two-hundred dollars under his bed was better than nothing. 

Steve was right by the door when Billy entered, blood dried on his lips and tears streaking his face. "Billy, what are you doing?"

"I told you," Billy shrugged past him. "I'm going."

"You can't," Steve tried, grabbing the sleeve of Billy's shirt, remembering the first time they had kissed. "Where would you even fucking  _go?"_

"I have to," Billy told him, pulling out of his grasp. "I'm too much fucking trouble, okay?"

"Fuck you," Steve spat, and the vehemence surprised Billy. "You don't get to decide what is and isn't too much for me to handle."

Billy didn't reply as he went to his bedroom and began piling his meager belongings to go. _You were right_ , he told the Voice. _I'm ruining him. I've never deserved him. I--_  
He realized that there had been no doubts whispering in the corner of his mind, not one word of guilt or fear. It was only him, standing over a few shirts, a spare change of underwear, and a shoe box, and the boy he loved was crying in the doorway, begging him not to go.

All at once, Billy sank to the floor, sobs wracking his body. 

The sudden change caught Steve off-guard, but he went to Billy, crouching on the floor and wrapping his arms around him, whispering things like, "It's okay, you're okay, I'm okay." 

Billy cried hard enough to give himself a headache. By the time he had broken off with a yawn, Steve was sniffling a mix of snot and dried blood and and shaking slightly. Billy let himself lean into Steve't touch. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm so sorry, so so sorry."

Steve just held him tighter. "Let's get outta here," he said. "Go to my place."

Billy nodded, and let Steve drive him away from his escape plan.

 

\---------------

 

"You have a pool," Billy noted. "I never saw it, that first time."

Steve smiled. "We can go swimming, if you want."

"We should get you cleaned up first," Billy said. "Peroxide, all that." 

The drive to Steve's had been silent. Billy was not going to run away, not yet, and Steve was not going to let him anyway. As they sat in Steve's bathroom, Billy dabbing lightly at Steve's beat-up face, Steve whispered, "I love you."

Billy shuddered, put his paper towel aside, and kissed Steve, blood and all. When he resumed cleaning up Steve he said, "I have a sister."

This response confused Steve. 

"You asked where I would even fucking go. I have a sister. I'd go see her."

"You've told me about her," Steve reminded him. "At least, you told me you had a sister before." 

Billy hummed, began throwing away the bloodied towels and other supplies. "I was horrible to her. My dad was always treating me like shit, and I couldn't fight back or take it out on his new wife, so this younger girl became the target of all my anger. I never physically touched her-- I'm not like my dad, not completely, but I did enough."

"What did your dad do?"

Billy was silent for a moment, remembering. "Before my mom died, he would beat her a lot. For the stupidest things. Like she didn't have dinner made on time one night, so he beat her black and blue. She forgot to fold his laundry, so he'd whip out his belt. She died when I was young, and for a while my dad was committed to a never-ending pussy-chase. He finally married a woman and they ended up moving to Indiana."

Steve tried to absorb the information. "Billy, did your father... did your father beat you, too?"

Billy's eyes finally found Steve's flashing with more tears. "Not when I was younger. It started happening in junior high, and beyond."

Steve's jaw was set tightly. 

"I know, I keep dumping all this shit on you--"

"It's not your fault," Steve frowned. "Your dad beat you, Billy! I-- I keep thinking about how unfair you've been treated your whole life and I keep thinking about you in that damned hospital bed, and none of it is fair!" Then quieter, "It breaks my heart to hear you blaming yourself all the time."  

Billy smiled sadly. "That's why I wanted to leave. I feel like I only make you sad." He sniffed. "So, I'd go to my sister. I wrote to her, a little. Tried to apologize. But I'm not good with words, and I don't even know if they still live in that same fucking house."

Steve stirred with an idea. "Let's find out."

"Excuse me?"

"We could drive to Indiana, check up on your sister."

"No fucking way," Billy shook his head, frowning. "She doesn't want to see me. Like I said, I don't even know if she read my dumb letters."

"I could use a break from this place, too." Steve would never be the first to drop the topic. "We don't have to see your dad. I'd beat his ass, too. We'll just try to talk to your sister. Maybe call ahead, or--"

"Steve," Billy sighed. "Want to go swimming?"

They would discuss the idea more, eventually. But for just then, they went into Steve's pool, happily splashing and diving and kissing as the sun set in the sky, and Billy began to feel the broken pieces of his heart slowly stitch back together.

 


	12. Chapter 12

_Home_ and _house_ had always been two very different words in Billy's mind. A house was just a building used for shelter, any place he could find that was warmer than his old. beat-up car. But a home was something that was permanent, a word that stuck to the tip of his tongue and made his chest feel a little tight. A home was a place to belong. He hadn't really thought that he ever had a home; California was a bittersweet memory and Indiana was a nightmare, and everything in between had been a purgatory of sorts.

So, when Steve started asking him about home, Billy didn't know where to talk about. He thought immediately about how cold Steve could be even under his endless pile of blankets, about how Steve could sleep through all of Billy's nightmares yet be awoken at the slightest jostle. Billy remembered the bar, and how warm it had been on that first night months ago, and how a certain head of bouncing brown hair had offered him drunken refuge.

Billy almost started talking about Steve himself, but realized he wanted to hear about his past-- the houses he had come from, not his true home. 

"I already told you about my dad," Billy said, in an act of deflection. "And we're not going to Indiana."

"I think it could be good for you," Steve admitted. "To see your sister and apologize, in person."

Billy asked, "And what if she's not there?"

"Then that'll be the end of it."

The two were still at Steve's house. He told Billy that he had a few hours before needing to go to the bar, and they had gone crazy in the pool. There was a brief cannonball contest that ended after Steve slipped on the wet tile and nearly broke his ass on the pavement. He had insisted that he was fine, but Billy refused to play the game anymore.

They had went from swimming chaotically, the most play the pool had seen since the younger kids had visited a few months ago, to Billy floating on his back, shirtless, Steve watching him from the sidelines, gently wading his feet in the water, creating small ripples. Gingerly, Billy said, "You don't understand how terrible I was to her, Steve." His head was half-submerged, ears sunk in the water and muffling the vibrations of his voice to his skull. 

"You couldn't have been that bad," Steve shrugged, but he had to look away from Billy for a moment. "Brothers and sisters fight all the time."

"Yeah, but," Billy broke the surface of the water by bending his back and flipped to his feet, pushing his way through the water to get closer to Steve. "For a long time, I blamed her for everything, you know? If she broke curfew, I'd get the shit beat out of me. If I didn't know where she was every second of the day, I'd get the shit beaten out of me. If she wandered off with friends from school--"

"Billy." Steve flinched at the words.

"For a long time, I hated her." Billy finished his short speech with shame, not able to meet Steve's gaze. "I was fuckin' insane, she was just this twelve-year-old kid, and I would treat her like the scum of the earth."

Steve didn't know how to reply. He suddenly missed doing cannonballs, even though his ass ached at the memory of the fall. Billy had meandered close enough to kick water onto, so Steve flicked at him with his foot. The other boy blinked the spray away, not able to smile. "I don't think I can face her. Writing letters is one thing-- plus, she has no way of writing back and telling me to fuck off."

Steve hummed. "Maybe you could start there," he suggested. "Next time you write to her. Include my address, tell her to write back if she wants."

Billy paused to consider the option. If Max ended up declaring her hatred for him, he wasn't sure how he would feel. Instead of answering Steve's idea, he moved between the other boy's thighs, and arched just slightly to kiss him. Pulling back Billy whispered, "Everything's been so crazy."

Steve smirked. "You're still the only one freaking out here."

Billy ghosted his fingers lightly over the bruises swelling on Steve's face, knowing that Tim hurt him. It made his insides feel rotten and lumpy, and he wanted to wipe away the purple-red marks like they were lead and his touch the eraser. "What are you going to tell your dad?" 

"I'll just make something up," Steve said. "Tell him some dude from campus is pissed at me. He'll go on about maturity and whatnot but I think I can handle it-- and don't apologize, Bill, you're not the one who hit me."

"I wish that fucker had gotten more time." Billy wasn't even thinking about himself. If Tim had been sentenced to even one more month, then the scene outside of the diner wouldn't have ever happened. Steve's face wouldn't be a distorted painting of color and hurt. "I don't know if you've realized this, but society doesn't favor people like us."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"All of that evidence--" Billy's breath hitched. "They got his semen fresh off of me, his fingerprints, his spit, what the fuck ever. If it had been a girl raped by a man, he would be rotting in jail."

Steve had his feet locked by the ankles around Billy's waist, and his grip tightened. "Hey," he gently ran his fingers through Billy's wet hair. "I have an idea."

"Another one?" Billy asked, only slightly joking. 

Now Steve hesitated, and Billy of course thought of the worst thing that could happen. "We could find somewhere new to live."

"Huh?"

The color that rose to Steve's cheeks was hot to the touch, blood simmering. "Not like... you know, move in together or whatever but like, just find a place, two-bedroom, split the rent, that kind of stuff."

"You asking to be my roommate, Harrington?" Billy laughed, and the sound bounced through Steve's hand, which had been firmly situated on Billy's chest, tracing stray drops of water. 

Steve's blush became amplified and he muttered, "I just don't like you living there... and it's not like you can just move into my parent's place." Suddenly, he stood up. "It's getting late, let's go dry off."

Dazed, Billy lifted himself out of the pool, knowing that Steve's eyes lingered on his muscles. They dressed in a comfortable silence, and Billy couldn't find his voice. He was too caught up in the idea of Steve sharing a house with him-- sharing a _home._ What were the rules for something like that? He had known Steve for almost a year, but they hadn't been dating for much more than a few months. Billy was completely fine with sharing their own space, but he couldn't help but fear the possibility that he would wake up one day, and Steve would be gone. There was always so much fear.

He finally managed to ask, "Is the sign at the bar still broken?"

Steve was working on buttoning up a shirt. "Kinda-- dad's got it in this weird flickering on-and-off stage that probably causes seizures."

"Do you... do you think he'd pay me to fix it? Like a mini-job. My rates are way lower than any other technician in the area."

Steve finished off the last button, finally smiling again. "Well, come with me to the bar and ask him yourself."

Billy nodded, then went to worry about his hair.

He hadn't been to the bar in weeks; between Steve being at school and then coming back and the two falling into each other, Billy didn't crave alcohol like he had in the past. He didn't have the spare cash to go wild, either. 

While Billy tried to comb out the curls forming from the chlorine, Steve crept up behind him and kissed at his neck, distracting him. He was probably going to be late for work, but he didn't care too much.

He remembered how he could easily pry himself away from Nancy to get to his job, but leaving Billy was harder for him. He told himself that it was because he needed to look for a job that wasn't paid by his own father, that building up a few strikes on his record could get his father to fire him before he needed to really quit. He convinced himself that he _had_ loved Nancy, but something was just so utterly different with Billy that a strike from his father was worth the extra time pressed against the other boy's skin.

"Steve," Billy grumbled, though it was a breathy groan that bordered on a whimper. 

"Hm?" Steve hummed innocently, tongue flicking over the spot he had been working on. His hands moved to Billy's shoulders and forced the other boy to spin around, and Billy was surprised by his sudden force. Steve wasn't weak, but he definitely hid his muscles a lot better than Billy could've. 

He pushed Billy back against the wall, air whooshing from his lungs with a soft "Oof," before Steve started kissing him. "Don't you have to go to work?" Billy asked between kisses. 

"V'got time." The truth was that Steve hadn't looked at a clock in hours, and glancing at the one on his wrist revealed that he had exactly fifteen minutes to spare before he'd have to break the sound barrier to get to the bar on time. Feeling daring, he went straight for the belt that Billy had just done up. He expected Billy to freeze up, to shove him away, but instead the other boy arched into the touch, head falling to the crook of Steve's neck, already panting. 

Steve hadn't expected to actually ever get that far with Billy. There had been the time in the shower, but Billy ran when Steve tried to reciprocate, and now he was groaning in the same bathroom, skin hot to the touch, and Steve only had ten minutes to spare. Billy moaned, "Baby," and Steve nearly came just from hearing that.

The ticking of his watch seemed impossibly loud over their combined breaths. He knew that in seven minutes, six, five, the alarm he had set to keep him on track would go off and the moment would be ruined, so he steeled himself and whispered, "I want you to fuck me," into Billy's ear, and the other boy shuddered so hard that Steve thought he had came, but it was only surprise and lust wracking through his body.

Steve stepped away from Billy, instantly feeling cold. "I have to get to work," he said, his watch beeping just then. 

"Right," Billy swallowed heavily. "Maybe I should... I should look at the sign another night, maybe tomorrow."

"Why? Are you busy?" Steve feigned ignorance, taking note of the way Billy's jeans were tented. 

Billy was still breathing hard. Steve's watch continued beeping, waiting for him to acknowledge it. "I-- I guess not," Billy shrugged forcing himself to calm down. It was a fairly easy thing to do; he walked away from Steve and his blood flow returned to normal with every step. He was out of practice. 

As Steve drove and thought about what he had whispered, Billy contemplated what it meant that he didn't freeze up under Steve's direct touch. In fact, he risked popping a boner whenever he even remembered the pressure of Steve's hips against his. When he had imagined sex with Steve, he never thought about being anything other than the one being fucked, and he knew that eventually he would have with Steve, but the other boy's admission of desire drove him mad.

He blinked, and suddenly he was standing in front of Steve's father, shaking the man's hand. His eyes shone with recognition, and Billy thought stupidly about his first night in town, how he had crashed in the closet of the bar, being found later and told to hit the road. He wondered if Mr. Harrington was remembering the same events.

Nonetheless, he accepted Billy's offer to fix the sign. "If you can get that damn thing to shine, I'll pay you two-hundred bucks. I've got countless hands to look at it and no one's gotten it to work."

"Yes, sir," Billy nodded, trying to be respectful. He caught a glimpse of Steve smirking as he polished a glass with a cloth. Sheepishly, he borrowed a toolbox and the ladder from the closet and went to work. His only background with that sort of thing was high school, workshop being one of the few classes he passed with flying colors. 

While Billy fiddled with wires and buttons, Steve watched. He didn't mean to, but his eyes just kept finding their way back to Billy, catching on the exposed V of his hips whenever he stretched up and pulled his shirt along with his arms. 

It was a rare night that his father was working with him, so it wasn't as crazy to balance all of the orders. It also gave him more time to stare. "Steve," his father had snapped. "What're you daydreaming about? That girl of yours?"

Steve flushed, remembered that he had never mentioned to his father that he and Nancy had broken up. "Uh, yeah," he stuttered, knowing that it would be the worst idea in the world to admit to his father that, actually, he was fantasizing about the complete opposite of Nancy in every way, shape, and form.

"Well, get back to work," his father ordered, though it was delivered with a light smile. "You have lots of time to get all dreamy outside of the bar."

"Yes, sir," Steve parroted Billy. He resumed filling drink orders and cleaning tables, but occasionally looked back at Billy through the glass. At one point the boy had completely disappeared, having climbed totally on the roof to access a different area of the sign and nearly gave Steve a heart attack. He didn't think he could handle another trip to the hospital.

Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered, there was a loud thump on the ceiling, and Steve heard Billy exclaim. He hurried toward the door, imagining finding Billy's frayed body crumpled on the ground, but instead the sign atop the entrance was illuminated, broadcasting into the night.

"Well, I'll be damned," Steve heard his father say behind him. "I didn't think your friend could actually do it."

"Me neither," Steve told him honestly. Billy hollered with joy on the roof, shimming and pumping his fists in victory, and Steve watched with adoration as he went off, not noticing how his father's eyes watched him. When Billy finally calmed down enough to get back down the ladder, he shook Steve's father's hand with a proud smile and said, "There you go, sir."

He went inside, where a check was filled out in looping handwriting that looked like it belonged more to a girl, but Billy pocketed it with numb fingers. Steve's dad gave a round on the house and Billy drank happily, soaking in all of the praise that he had never gotten before. He left before Steve could, to not appear suspicious, and walked all the way to the shitty apartment to collect his shoe box. He threw it in the trunk of his car, check included, and drove to Steve's house.  _Home._ He parked down the block, just in case, but he happily waited up the rest of the night for Steve to come back, to come home, kicking his feet in the chilled pool water. 

The next time around, Steve didn't sneak up on Billy. He could hear the arrival of the car on the asphalt, the engine shutting off. He heard footsteps that went into the house, and disappeared from earshot. Then Steve said, "I saw your car, thought you'd be inside."

"I don't have a key," Billy told him, twisting to look over his shoulder and smile at the other boy, who had a rag tossed over his shoulder, one arm lifted up against the edge of the door, leaning. His hair was smoothed back, and his eyes were dark.

"Well, come inside," he offered to Billy. Billy pulled his feet from the water and walked slowly to Steve, letting his toes curl into the grass and dry a little. By the time he got to Steve, the other boy was beaming and red-cheeked. "M'proud of you," Steve whispered, leaning to kiss Billy.

"All I did was fix a broken sign." Billy wanted to brush the achievement away, but Steve shook his head.

"You really impressed my dad," he said. Then he brushed just close enough to Billy to tease, but didn't touch him. "It was pretty hot, watching you work on the sign."

Billy chuckled. "Do my technician skills turn you on?"

Steve didn't laugh. Billy couldn't even differentiate the pupils from his irises. "You have no idea," he moaned onto Billy's lips, breath ghosting over the skin. Billy shivered.

Trying to remain cool, Billy whispered, "What are we still doing outside, Harrington?"

"Your feet are wet,"

"They'll dry," and Billy cupped Steve's face in his hands and backed him up, letting the door slid shut behind him. It was close to four in the morning, but neither were feeling too tired. Steve thought about what happened earlier in the bathroom, hoped that Billy would react the same again. To his pleasure, Billy bit his bottom lip and muttered, _"Want you."_

Steve nodded, letting Billy drag his hands over his body and pull at the hem of his shirt, exposing his chest but not letting it get cold, because soon his own was pressed against Steve's. It was almost like a key turning in a lock, and Billy felt so free to be with Steve that he could have started crying. Instead he focused on sucking on Steve's neck. 

Steve asked, "Bedroom?" His voice sounded so weary and so hopeful that Billy could only nod eagerly, moving toward Steve's room without really watching his feet, too distracted by Steve's lips. 

Steve backpedaled, throwing himself on his bed and bouncing slightly, watching as Billy closed the door carefully behind himself, cautious of being caught. "Billy," Steve moaned, reaching toward him in the air. Billy smiled and easily tore his shirt off. They had been naked together before, so he wasn't too concerned with the formalities of exposing his body.

He climbed on top of Steve, working his way up the boy's torso, lapping at his navel and teething at a nipple. "Kiss me," Steve gasped.

Billy complied, but then paused. "Steve... are you sure?" 

Steve's eyes had been closed, but they flew open, fiery with passion. "Billy, I want you," he said. He emphasized the point by spreading his legs and wrapping them around Billy's waist, pelvis pressed to pelvis. 

"I don't want to hurt you," Billy said.

Steve bit at his ear. "Then don't." 

"Do you have any lube?" Billy asked suddenly, seriously, forcefully.

It became real for Steve then, that he was going to let the boy fuck him, and he groaned at the thought. "I have, uh, lotion?" He offered, nodding toward his nightstand. Billy hummed and got it. All Steve could hear was the pump of the bottle onto Billy's palm, but he didn't go right for Steve's ass. Instead, he stroked Steve's dick a couple of times, the lotion warming with the friction and making everything slick. Steve moaned loudly and Billy told him, "It's easier on your side. Or, on all fours."

"I want..." Steve panted, gasping when Billy twisted his hand a certain way. "I want to see you, Bill."

Billy nodded, and began working his hand lower, cupping Steve's balls, kissing between his thighs, using his spare hand to hold one leg apart so that Steve wouldn't have to use all of his muscles to support his thighs, which were already trembling from all of the activity. "Tell me if it hurts, or if you want to stop, or anything like that, okay?"

Steve nodded eagerly, not understanding Billy's desperate desire to hear him say _yes_ so many times. Billy just wanted to give Steve everything he never got from the men that fucked him. He wanted it to feel good for Steve, too. He mouthed close to Steve's hole, blew cold air onto the hot flesh, and started with one finger. He shifted, so that he could see Steve's face better, watching for any signs of pain.

It was slow and gentle, and Steve felt an odd pressure in his ass but nothing really painful. He didn't know why Billy was so worried. Then Billy started moving two fingers, and things changed. Suddenly a slight sting went up Steve's spine, and he gasped. Billy quickly stopped, and kissed the other boy quickly. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "do you--"

"Billy, please," Steve groaned, thrusting down on the fingers. The stab of pain had subsided into pressure again, and the friction was beginning to feel good, better than anything Steve could have done by himself. Billy continued like that for a good handful of minutes, kissing Steve a little too sloppily and understanding that that moment was it, and when he pushed into Steve finally after what felt like a dozen lifetimes, it was more than enough.

He bottomed out, and waited. Steve panted beneath him, but he did not close his eyes against the discomfort. He watched Billy closely as he began to move; tiny, microscopic stirs of his hips that drew soft gasps from Steve's mouth. "Fuck," Billy groaned, feeling everything he had been missing in his life all at once. 

The first time that Steve actually exclaimed, bordering on a yelp, was the first time that Billy had pulled out farther before snapping his hips back in, starting to set the pace. He hesitated but then Steve was chanting, "Do that again, Billy, ohmygod, do that again," and Billy knew that he was finally doing something right. He kept his angle and watched Steve fall apart beneath him. 

After, when the room had quieted and the only thing that could be heard was the the soft breathing of the two boys and the occasional shift of the blankets, Billy found that he couldn't stop touching Steve. Not even in an explicit way. He just wanted to hold onto the boy, trace patterns on his bare skin with the tips of his fingers, brush those same fingers through the wild tangles of bed-head, and when all was said and done, just holding Steve's hand made a fire spark in Billy's chest that he could not douse with any amount of doubt and self-loathing.

He remembered helping Steve in his bathroom, cleaning up his face after fighting the man that nearly killed Billy. Steve had said he loved Billy. 

Carefully, Billy checked to see if Steve was really deeply asleep. Taking a deep breath and putting all of the unshed tears he had harbored behind his voice, Billy whispered, "I love you, too, Steve."

And he knew that the next letter he wrote to Max would have a return address. 


	13. Chapter 13

_Dear Billy,_

  
_I can't write and tell you that all is well, and i cant tell you that I'm in hell. There is so much that has happened over the past few years, and i think if i tried to write it all in one letter, then I'd end up writing you a novel. So, for now, I'll start with one topic at a time._

_Every letter you've written me, without fail, has mentioned how much of an asshole you were to me. And, yes, I did hate you. For a long time. I knew about all of the things your father did to you, but it didn't connect in my brain that maybe that's why you were so damn hard on me; you were just trying to ward off a beating._

_No, he hasn't touched me. He drinks a lot though. My mom's not around much, since she's the only one working, and he usually spends all day in a drunken haze on the couch._

_Just know that I can see a change-- well, read a change. The Billy I remember from all those years ago was a boy that would never apologize for anything, let alone show such genuine remorse._

_What your father made you to be is not your fault._

_I'll be writing more letters, so keep looking._

_Max_

 

 

_Dear Billy,_

_How much do you remember about California? Have you been back there? I remember it all the time, but every day the memory gets more and more blurry, and that scares me a little. I want to go back there someday._

_I wanted to tell you that I read your letter about someone you love, and i'm happy for you. I hope she's everything you need. I've been dating off an on, nothing serious (I'm far too mature for these Indiana boys, anyway)._

_I'm glad. That's all._

_Max_

 

 

 

_Billy,_

_I cannot believe you. How could you not tell me about Steve sooner? I guess you must have been afraid of how I would react. Well, I'm still happy for you. I just hope he's everything you need._

_This is my last year of high school, Billy, and then I can go wherever I want. I've already been handling scholarships and college ideas and all that. Maybe you could come see me before I go?  Bring Steve, too._

_Max_

 

 

  
Those were just some of the letters that Billy had been getting in response from his step-sister. There had been late nights spent pouring his heart out onto real lined paper, not just stolen scraps stained by coffee. He told Max that he loved someone and was not upset when she assumed his love was female. He sent another one specifying that he loved Steve, a boy from a city that Billy would've never been able to place on the map just a year ago. There were times when he wrote something to Max and it just felt like too much, and he scratched it out until the pen ran out of ink and his wrist cramped up from the effort. 

On those nights, Steve would listen to the pen scratching on the paper. He would stare at Billy's exposed back, sometimes marked and scratched, other times unblemished, until he couldn't stand it any longer and he crawled out of bed and wrapped himself around Billy. He never read the other boy's letters, but knew how important they were. 

There was a shoe box, one that had once contained all of Billy's money but now only stored the letters from his sister, which Billy kept proudly on his little desk that he had purchased with legal money working legal jobs. Their apartment was small, but they didn't need much of anything else. 

Some nights, nights when Billy wasn't writing a letter, he would toss and turn and cry out in his sleep. His knees would knock Steve's and his sobs would stain the pillows, and Steve could only wake him and hold him and kiss him, until the other boy settled back into reality, choking out his love for Steve into the crook of his neck. 

It wasn't always easy. It took Billy a few months to find a steady paying job, and it was harder when Steve had to go back to college and there hours upon hours of time when Billy couldn't talk to him. They always fell back together, though, eventually. 

_Max,_

_Me and Steve would love to come see you. I hope I've changed like you think. Sometimes I can't remember anything from the past because it's like my brain doesn't want me to, but I'm working on that kind of stuff._

_See you soon,_

_Billy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read this thing all the way through, all of the comments and kudos make me so happy and excited to write more. I know there's so many things I can improve on and I just love writing even on days when it seems like I can't write a damn thing. 
> 
> There were a lot of different things I could have done with this fic, but I feel like I've been writing too many other things to really give it the attention it deserves to be made into something longer. Maybe I'll come back to it in the future. But for now, this is the end of this story :)
> 
> I'll be writing more! I think I mentioned my tumblr in the past but I actually changed my url pretty recently so now it's inkwellpen.tumblr.com if you want to message me, if you have any prompts or anything like that (I can try to do things justice, but there are so many good writers out there in this fandom I honestly spend most of my time reading them instead of actually writing tbh)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> i fuckhing hate editing and i never do it sorry man


End file.
